


All The Memories I Hold Dear

by for_the_love_of_wolves



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arsonphobia, Blow Jobs, Depression, Eichen | Echo House, Everyone stays at Beacon Hills, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Getting Together, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Ignores Season 5, M/M, Memories, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Paris (City), Pining, Psychological Trauma, Self-Harm, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Some Elements of Season 6 (B), Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Warning: Kate Argent, Young Chris Argent, Young Derek Hale, Young Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:08:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23549692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_the_love_of_wolves/pseuds/for_the_love_of_wolves
Summary: "When someone does come, it isn’t Derek. It isn’t Deaton. It also isn’t McCall or a member of his pack. It’s Chris Argent."Chris finds Peter in Eichen House and can't leave him there. While Chris tries to figure out what to do with a traumatized werewolf in his house - a werewolf that wanted to kill him when they last met - their shared past catches up with them.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale
Comments: 49
Kudos: 213





	1. Peter

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [a breath underwater, i’ve never felt like drowning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20402590) by [Faetality](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faetality/pseuds/Faetality). 



Somewhere, water is dripping. A steady and monotonous drumming that echoes in the hallway. The noise forms a strange, nerve wrecking symphony together with the heavy groans and the high-pitched whimpers coming from a cell. 

It’s night at Eichen House but without windows and with lights never being switched off, the inmates can’t know that. 

Peter is sitting on the floor of his cell, his arms wrapped around his body and his head leaned against the rough wall. He falls asleep now and then but jerks awake after only a few minutes, when there’s another cry or sob coming from another cell. He hasn’t had a proper night’s rest since he had been thrown into this cell. 

He shivers and pulls his knees closer to his body in an unconscious attempt to warm himself. Down here, it’s always cold. The thin scratchy clothes barely help. In a particularly cold night, Peter’s toes went numb and he had to rub them back to life. 

The guards don’t care. Peter knew from the start. There are no doctors or therapists down here. They never leave their cell for a walk or for group meetings. The only medicine they get is poison. Poison, that weakens Peter’s wolf and makes him harmless. Obedient. Pliant. 

In the beginning, Peter still had the energy to growl and snarl at the guards. Still had the energy to flash his eyes and bare his fangs. He still had enough strength to make them take a step back. He told himself and them over and over again that he was going to be out of this cell in no time. But the drugs worked fast and effective. Soon, the slurred words sounded empty to himself. He knows the truth now. He is never going to get out.

And he deserves it, doesn’t he? He deserves to be alone, cold and drugged out of his mind. He deserves the blows and kicks, the insults and the mocking. He deserves it. They tell him so and they are right. But that they are right doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.

In one of his restless dreams, Peter sees Talia. She is standing in front of him, on a meadow covered in wildflowers. Her skin is covered in old ash. She is looking at him with sorrow in her eyes. 

Peter feels the urge to _explain_. He wants to talk about pack, about dangers and about the meaning of power. But he suddenly feels so tired. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does. Not anymore.  
  
He just lowers his head and looks at the burnt plush toy suddenly laying in the grass. He knows it. Knows who it belonged to. The kid is gone. They are all dead and gone. He chokes on his tears.   
  
Talia comes closer and rests a hand on his shoulder. 

Peter wants to reach for it. Wants to feel at least a hint of pack, of family, of safety. No matter if it’s real or not.  
  
But in the end, what he sluggily reaches for is just the hand of a guard, roughly shaking him awake, telling him it’s time for his “medicine”. This is how far they have come. They can just step in and touch him, he’s no danger to them. Nothing more than another defeated broken dog they have to keep alive. And they do nothing more than that. They keep the creatures in the ward alive and actually let them die a bit more every day.

Most of the time, Peter sits slumped against the wall, wishing there would be at least a window in here. A window to see the sky.  
  
Most of the time, he’s left alone with this thoughts, memories and dreams. Which are worse enough. 

The guards entering his cell from time to time are the only distraction he gets. Most of them only look at him in open disgust. But there’s one man who fulfills the cliché of asshole prison guard incredibly well. Peter doesn’t know his name, but he calls the man Scarface, since he has a ragged silver scar right above his right eye. Peter wonders if it comes from a werewolf. 

Scarface likes to mock Peter, likes to taunt him and call him names. When Scarface realizes how little Peter can do when he’s drugged up, he adds beatings and kicks to his visits. Since Peter’s wolf is exhausted and confused and since he’s alone - no pack bonds to give him energy - his wounds don’t heal as fast as they used to. A lot of bruises stay for days.

One day, Scarface brings a lighter. He crouches down and holds it in Peter’s face, switching it on. Peter flinches back so fast, he hits the back of his head on the wall hard. The world goes black for a moment. He whimpers and tries to get away from the flame dancing in front of him, tries to get away from the heat and the smell and … the screams. He can hear them screaming. His nose is filled with the gut wrenching smell of burning flesh. His pack, his family is burning, and he can’t do anything. He can’t save them. The fire is everywhere, cracking and roaring. It reaches for him and licks him and _God_ , it hurts … “Stop,” he pleads. “Stop, stop, stop …”

All the memories, he desperately tried to bury in the farest corner of his mind come back at once, and it drives him crazy.

Scarface watches him closely. He laughs and grins in ugly glee. “Look at that. Big bad wolf is afraid of the fire. Are you going to piss yourself, huh?” He moves the flame from side to side and Peter follows it with his eyes, whimpering, pressing his body against the wall firmer.  
  
Scarface scoffs. “Maybe it would have been best if you’d burned with the other mutts in the house. Who cares for you, anyway? You’re worthless. Just a useless, pathetic dog crying out for his dead friends at night.”

Peter’s wolf suddenly stirs, angry and desperate. Peter lunges for Scarface, his fangs bared. At least that’s what he tries. What he manages is a weak forward motion that sends him stumbling to the floor, and he hisses in pain when the rough floor cuts into the skin of his hands. Scarface flinches back a little, but he only chuckles. “Why don’t you stay like this,” he taunts, pulling Peter’s head down by his hair, pressing his face against the tiles. “Suits you.”

Another guard passes by, looking at Scarface and rolling his eyes. “Stop fooling around. We have actual work to do.” He sounds annoyed. But also a little bit amused. There’s no one here who would stop a guard abusing an inmate, Peter knows. There’s no help. Scarface lets go of him and leaves the cell, smiling brightly at Peter and waving his lighter, “I’m coming back, mutt, don’t worry.” He leaves with firm steps and Peter slumps, heaving out a sob. The fire is still raging in his head. 

He wonders not for the first time, if he could smash his head against the wall hard enough to end this. But he doesn’t even have the energy to sit up. So he just stays where he is, with his forehead pressed against the floor, trying to fall asleep. Sleep is the only short escape he has left.

Time passes.  
  
Peter doesn’t know how much. But things change around him. The smells change. One day, there is a lot of noise. A lot of screaming. Glass breaks somewhere. Peter doesn't find the strenght to care. He just curls into himself and tries to sleep.

Things change further.

They don’t bring food anymore. 

Scarface doesn’t visit him anymore. No more lighters and kicks and mocking words. 

One day, the lights go out. It shouldn’t make a difference. But it does and Peter feels a weak hint of shock when he realizes, he can’t see as well in the dark as he used to. 

Somewhere, someone - _something_ \- is crying. Heavy sobs and wails that echo through the whole dark hallway. 

Peter sits and waits. For something. Someone. Nothing. No one. 

Someone has to check eventually, if he’s still confined and behaving well, right? Someone …   
  


When someone does come, it isn’t Derek. It isn’t Deaton. It also isn’t McCall or a member of his pack.

  
It’s Chris Argent.  
  


Peter first thinks, Argent is a ghost. A walking memory. But when he blinks, Argent is still standing there, in front of the glass, his eyes wide and filled with something, that makes Peter close his eyes, because he can’t stand it. 

Of all people who could have seen him like this, it had to be Argent. The irony … 

The first thing Argent says is “Shit.” 

Then: “Peter?”

His voice sounds … worried. It reminds Peter. Reminds him of the past. 

* * *

A club, flashing lights. Too loud music. Dancing humans. The smell of sweat, sweet liquor and sex heavy in the air. Peter’s senses are screaming and he lost Derek. He stumbles around, searching for his nephew, feeling lightheaded and worried. He was supposed to take care Derek is safe. What is Talia going to say? God. Why the hell did Derek even want to go here?! It’s horrible.  
  
He has to lean against a wall for a moment, while the world is swaying around him. Or is it him, who’s swaying? Suddenly, there’s a cautious hand on his shoulder. “Peter?” A worried deep voice asks. 

Peter startles and turns around.  
  
Christopher Argent is standing in front of him, slowly pulling back his hand and shoving it deep into the pocket of his leather jacket. Like always, he smells of oil and gunpowder. But today, he’s also smelling of a new strange perfume. It’s too sweet. Peter wrinkles his nose. 

“You’re okay?” Chris asks. 

“I’m fine. What are you doing here?” Peter snaps. “Are you making sure I eat no teenagers?”  
  
Chris flinches. He shrugs, kicking against a pebble that flies away. “No. I’m here with a, uh, a girl.” He makes a vague gesture towards a girl standing a few metres away, leaning against a car and looking at her mobile. 

Peter knows who she is. Victoria. Smart, pretty, sharp. It’s … fitting. “Good for you,” he murmurs. 

Chris stares at him. “How are you?” He asks.  
  
“I told you. I’m fine.” 

“No. I mean … How are you, generally? You’ve been avoiding me,” Chris says and the last few words sound mildly accusing.

And Peter doesn’t want to, but he feels a bit guilty. He remembers. Remembers a certain night all too well ...  
  


It all started with glances in the classroom. And it ended with a kiss in the woods in the middle of the night. It was chaste. Barely more than a peck. But it was there. It was warm and soft. Peter liked it. 

“I like your eyes,” Chris said, cupping Peter’s face in his calloused hands. “Both.”

Peter chuckled and flashed them golden for Chris. “I like your French. Talk some more to me?” He asked, winking.  
  
Chris grinned. “Tu as les plus beaux yeux du monde.”  
  
“What does it mean?”  
  
“Google it,” Chris suggested, mischief gleaming in his eyes.  
  
Peter snorted. “Jerk!” 

Chris just grinned again and leaned forward. Maybe for another kiss. Peter shuddered when Chris' warm breath tickled his skin. But suddenly, a searching voice echoed through the forest. “Christopher? Where are you?” 

Both boys froze. Chris took a step back, his eyes widening. 

Peter knew who that voice belonged to and the hairs on his neck stood up while his wolf growled.  
  
Gerard Argent. He saw him on the hunt, only weeks ago. He knew he hated the supernatural, hated werewolves. He was dangerous.  
  
Chris looked afraid too, and that was what freaked Peter out way more than his wolf’s own fear.  
  
“You should go,” Chris said in a low voice. 

Peter’s chest ached. Chris didn’t want to be seen with him. Of course. What would his father think? And … God. What would Talia think? And the others … Suddenly, Peter felt cold and he asked himself, what the hell he was even doing here. With a hunter? With an Argent?  
  
This could all be a trap, he suddenly realized with terror making his throat feel tight. Christopher could be trying to get to him. To gain his trust. This … this was a mistake. 

Peter turned around, feeling numb. 

“Peter,” Chris said, urgently.  
  
Peter took one last look back. “See you tomorrow?” Chris asked, looking hopeful and nervous at the same time. Peter didn’t answer. He ran. 

He ran all the way home and immediately disappeared in his room, ignoring Derek’s questioning call and slamming the door shut. He threw himself on the bed and buried his face in the pillow. He could still feel the echo of Chris’ lips on his. Soft and warm. But … he had to keep his family, his pack, safe. He couldn’t do this with someone of the Argents. It was wrong. It was forbidden. It had to stop. 

From then on he ignored Christopher as best as he could. He avoided him in school, didn’t answer his messages, and didn’t try to find his scent in the forest.  
  
Christopher eventually stopped trying.  
  
Peter kept the memory of the kiss. He replayed it a few times, imagining it could have been more:

Now, Chris is staring at him with his sparkling crystal blue eyes, the stubble on his face a bit more pronounced than usual. It makes him look good. 

“You should go to your date,” Peter says, trying to turn away. 

But Chris reaches out and touches his shoulder. “Wait. Listen … What we did. It was … I wanted that.” He hesitates and Peter can hear Chris’ breath coming heavy and fast. “I still want it,” the other boy says quietly. 

Peter freezes.  
  
Chris isn’t lying, he knows. His heart is beating steady and strong. 

He could have that again, Peter realizes. The kiss. The gentle touches and playful mocking words that are actually clumsy flirting. He could have even more. But … No. He remembers Gerard. Remembers wolfsbane and mountain ash and swords. He has to keep his family safe. He has to … 

“Peter?” Chris asks.

Peter takes a deep breath. He clenches a hand into a fist. “It was just fooling around,” he murmurs. “It didn’t mean anything. And it shouldn’t. We’re enemies.”

Chris gasps. He takes a step back and his hand disappears from Peter’s shoulder. He smells of disappointment. And … hurt. For a moment, Peter wants to pull him back, wants to kiss him again. But Chris is already looking at Victoria, who waves at him. Chris looks at Peter with sorrow in his eyes. “Bye Peter,” he says curtly and turns around. 

Peter says nothing. He watches after Chris for a moment, watches how he reaches Victoria and wraps his arm around her. Peter pushes the feeling of hurt aside. He made his choice. He turns away and leaves. 

After half an hour Peter finally discovers Derek. 

The boy is standing close to a girl, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and grinning. She laughs at him. They look happy. 

Something tugs painfully at Peter’s heart. “Derek!” He barks.  
  
Derek startles and looks at him, the grin on his face dropping a bit. He says something to the girl and she nods, still smiling. Derek walks towards Peter, clearly reluctant. He’s keeping his shoulders high and his hands in his pockets. “What?” He asks. 

“Time to go home,” Peter grumbles. 

“But …” Derek starts, stopping when Peter glares at him, growling low in his throat. “Alright, alright,” Derek mumbles. “Can I say goodbye?” 

Peter shrugs. He watches Derek running back to the girl and his heart aches again.  
  


* * *

When the memories fade, Argent is already in the cell somehow, wrapping Peter into a blanket. “We’re leaving,” he says, his voice firm and his eyes hard. “Can you walk?”  
  
Peter just smiles weakly. Walking? He can’t even _move_. This is pathetic. He is. Pathetic and weak and broken. Scarface was right. No one cares for him. No one _should_ care for him. He’s worthless. He doesn’t understand why Argent is here, after Peter stabbed him. Left him bleeding out against a wall. Maybe, he wonders vaguely, they have a problem and need him to solve it? 

After a moment of hesitance, Argent picks Peter up bridal style, like he weighs nothing and carries him out the cell. 

The hallways they cross reek of blood and terror and people Peter thinks he knows. But there are too many layers of smells, so he stops to try to decipher them. 

Eventually, they are outside. The night sky is covered in stars. Peter stares up at it, transfixed. How long since he last saw the sky? He has no idea. The air is fresh and smells of spring. It’s overwhelming.

Argent puts him in the back of his car carefully. He hesitates, but then he lays a calloused hand on Peter’s forehead and murmurs, “It’s going to be alright.” Peter closes his eyes and involuntarily leans into the touch. It’s been so long since he’s been touched by a gentle hand. And when he tries hard enough, he can imagine he’s somewhere - sometime - else. Chris still smells of oil and gunpowder.

Way too soon, the touch disappears. Chris gets into the car himself and starts driving. Peter falls asleep as soon as they brought some distance between them and Eichen House. He doesn't dream.


	2. Chris

The night is mild. Chris can’t sleep. His eyes are heavy and his body exhausted, but he just can’t fall asleep. He feels restless. Feels a somber premonition. Something is wrong. Something. But he doesn’t know what. Can’t pinpoint the source of his agitation. He rolls around in bed once again, sighing heavily and pressing his eyes shut.  
  
Suddenly, a hand reaches out, touching his shoulder. Softly. “Chris?” A sleepy voice asks. “What are you thinking about?” 

Chris opens his eyes and looks at Peter beside him, who smiles at him questioningly.  
  
Chris shakes his head and frowns. “I don’t know. I … Something feels wrong.” 

Peter hums and comes closer, his naked skin gleaming pale in the moonlight. “The only wrong thing about this is you still wearing your clothes,” he purrs, hovering above Chris. Chris wants to answer, but Peter is already kissing him, swallowing the noise he makes. Chris closes his eyes and goes boneless, wrapping his arms around Peter, feeling his intense warmth all around him. There’s nothing wrong. Everything’s alright. Everything’s … 

The kiss stops. Peter’s lips disappear. 

Chris hears a low growl. Hot breath hits his skin. He freezes and opens his eyes, gasping when he sees Peter’s eyes glowing neon blue above him, his face contorting as he’s slipping into his full beta shift, sharp fangs dropping. “Peter,” Chris breathes. Peter growls again, his eyes narrowing, and Chris sees his own scared face reflected in them. He can’t move. He’s frozen in place, even when a clawed hand wraps around his throat, squeezing. “Peter,” he says again, weakly. He can’t breathe. Peter doesn’t let go, he just watches, as Chris starts to gasp for air, his fangs gritted together. 

Suddenly, when Chris feels he’s going to pass out, there’s a shot and a howl. Peter lets go, his eyes filling with pain as he slips from the bed and lands on the ground, reaching for his chest weakly, where he’s bleeding from a bullet hole. “Peter,” Chris gasps, coughing. “Peter …”

“What did I tell you, son.” Gerard steps into Chris’ vision, a gun in his hand. “What did I tell you about these abominations? About these animals.” He looks down at Peter, who is writhing on the floor, with disgust in his hard eyes. “You can’t trust them. _Never_ trust them.” Chris watches in horror as Gerard raises his gun again, aiming for Peter’s head. “No,” he breathes. “No …” 

Gerard smiles and pulls the trigger. 

* * *

Chris wakes up with a gasp. He stares blankly into the void for a while, his frantic breath slowly calming down. Sighing shakily, he reaches up and wipes over his face, his hand coming away wet with cold sweat. Chris shivers. 

The night is almost over. It’s already dawning, the sky changing from the dark night’s blue into a soft pink. The first birds are chirping in the tree in front of the window. 

Chris knows he won’t be able to fall back asleep. He gets up with a grunt, heading for the bathroom. He takes a quick cold shower to clear his head. It’s not the first time Chris has had this dream. Or a version of it. He hates it. The thing he hates most, is his father appearing. Gerard seems taller in his dreams. And louder. A threatening shadow, showing him how much he feared and still fears the man. He hates it. 

He doesn’t hate to dream about Peter. Not always, at least. Most of the times, he feels sad or guilty after it. When Vic was still alive and laying beside him in bed, the guilt dominated and he hoped he didn’t utter Peter’s name in his sleep. Vic never said anything. But well. She was like that. A steady, calm presence by his side, almost never letting her mask slip. Only, when she needed to. When he needed her to. 

Chris quickly pushes the memories of Vic aside. It hurts. Just like the memories of Peter hurt. The memories of how he - they - used to be.

Even now, after all that happened, he can’t hate Peter. He tried to. He felt the pain in his side and thought back to Peter stabbing him without hesitance. He tried to hate Peter, because hating him would make things a lot easier. But just like in the past, it didn’t work out. He’s just getting sad and nostalgia nags at him, when he thinks about the werewolf. So he mostly tries not to do it. Avoids it. 

Chris dries himself in front of the mirror, his eyes narrowing when they fall on the new fresh scar at his hip. His side is still throbbing, especially on cold rainy days. There are a lot of them now. More than usual, it seems. But maybe, that’s only the depression talking. There are days on which he just wants to lay down and never get up. Days when all he can do is throwing a pill into a glass of water, sitting on the couch and watching it dissolve, his mind completely numb. 

He involuntarily thinks back to the dream. He thinks back to Peter attacking him right after they kissed. The kiss felt good. They only kissed once in reality, and after that … Everything went to hell. Chris remembers that they never talked about what happened. They never talked about Kate, about the fire, about their losses. The just walked away, avoiding each other. 

Does Peter think he knew about Kate’s plan? Does he think he approved of it? Or worse, that he helped? 

Kate … 

A memory that fits his dream stirs in his mind. A memory of a much younger Kate coming into his room when he was studying, a smirk on her face, her eyes sparkling in anticipation.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said.

Chris didn’t answer. He was busy. There was an important exam next week. He didn’t have time for his sister and her games. But her next words made him perk up, his stomach dropping. 

“You have the hots for this wolf,” Kate said, chuckling. “Peter Hale.” 

Chris froze. His heart was pounding. The pencil hovered over his book, unmoving. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said slowly. He took a deep breath. _Control yourself. Control your emotions ..._

Kate chuckled, crossing her arms. “I saw you, Chris. I saw how you were prowling around him, saw how you gave him moon eyes whenever he was not looking. It’s almost cute, really. Although you have poor taste, brother mine.” A hint of disgust joined the amusement gleaming in her eyes. “I didn’t expect my brother to lust after an abomination like this. Do you want to be his mate? Do you want him to lick your face and claw at your back? Do you get off on the thought of him growling and howling while he’s mounting you like a dog in …”

Chris saw red. The pencil dropped. He jumped up and turned around, glaring at Kate. “Shut up!” He yelled. 

Kate’s smirk faded a bit. But she kept on staring at him, everything about her looking victorious. “I wonder,” she said quietly. “I wonder what father would say, what he would do, if he’d knew?” 

Chris shivered. He already knew. He knew exactly what would happen. Gerard couldn’t know. Never. “You won’t tell him,” he said, knowing the words were him admitting that what Kate said was true. “You won’t.” 

Kate hummed. “Maybe not. Watching this is too much fun for now. Just … be careful, Christopher,” she said, winking at him and Chris felt sick. “Go,” he pressed out. “Just … go.” 

Kate smiled and turned around, leaving his room. But she stopped in the doorframe, scratching a long fingernail over the wood. “Actually,” she said with a distant thoughtful look in her eyes. “Actually, it’s not that bad of an idea. To be close to one of them. To gain their trust.” 

Chris already wasn’t listening anymore, to occupied with thoughts about what his father might do, if he’d find out. He slumped in his chair and Kate left, humming some melody. 

_Kate …_  
  
There’s barely a day Chris doesn’t hate her. His sister. His malicious, manipulative sister. Who still walks free, still walks around as werejaguar, more dangerous than ever. Who is still able to plot her plans. She has always been difficult to find. And when one of Chris’ contacts tells him about her whereabouts, he’s always too late. She’s always gone. It’s frustrating. 

“At least,” Stiles tells him much later that same day, after the pack meeting, when everyone else is already gone and he and Chris are sitting on Derek’s couch. “At least she can’t work with Peter anymore. That was the most horrible pair up ever. Ugh.”

His words send a shiver over Chris’s back and makes his wound ache. Chris still can’t believe Peter would work together with Kate of all people. What the hell was going on with him? With his mind?! His mind … Chris realises that he doesn’t even know what happened with Peter after Mexico. He asks Stiles, involuntarily guilt stirring inside him. “Where is Peter?”  
  
Stiles sighs and makes a vague gesture. “Eichen House. In that special ward they have. For supernatural creatures.” 

Eichen House. _That_ hellhole. Chris frowns. He doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like the thought of Peter locked up in a cell, alone with his thoughts. With his memories. 

Stiles must notice his discomfort, because he sighs heavily and throws his hands up. “What else should we have done, Chris? Let someone babysit him? Christ, he tried to kill Scott. Worse. First he tried to make _us_ kill him when Scott was turned into a freaking berserker.” He shrugs. “We couldn’t risk him running around plotting another plan killing someone. Eichen House was the only option. They will ... help him.” 

Chris doesn’t miss the hitch and the hint of doubt in Stile’s words. “Didn’t you break Lydia out of Eichen because she was tortured and almost killed?” He asks, raising his eyebrows. 

Stiles definitely looks uncomfortable now. He’s fidgeting with his car keys. “Well … Yeah.” 

“But you do believe they are treating Peter well? Do you believe they help him deal with the trauma he suffered? With the memories of his family dying while he’s burning alive? Do you believe he’s attending therapy sessions and gets medication there?” Chris asks and every question makes the guilt burn stronger. It mingles with anger.

Stiles bites his lip. “Listen … There wasn’t time for anything - or anyone - else, alright? We had to be fast. The plan was to get in and get Lydia out, nothing more nothing less. That was difficult enough.” 

“Did anyone even check on Peter? Did anyone ever try to see him? Ask him if he’s alright? Derek? Cora? Or ... Malia? The remains of his family?” 

Stiles doesn’t say anything. That’s answer enough. 

Chris sighs and gets up slowly. Fuck. He’s really going to do this, right? Of course. Because he doesn’t hate Peter. Can’t hate him. Because he’s still dreaming of him. Still dreaming of them together in many different scenarios. And all of them would never happen ... “Alright. I’m going. I’m going to check on him.” 

Stiles frowns, scratching the back of his head. “He hurt _you_ too. Almost killed you.”  
  
Chris nods. “He did.” He grabs his jacket. 

“ _Why_ is he so important to you?” Stiles looks suspicious now and Chris almost wants to laugh. That kid is too smart and too fast for his own good. Chris is almost excited to see how long it’s going to take until Stiles sets the pieces of this certain puzzles together. Until he sees the big surprising and confusing picture that is going to spread out in front of him. 

Chris shrugs and puts on his jacket. “I don’t like the thought of someone with severe mental issues rotting in a cell, all alone,” he says calmly and Stiles looks away, sighing.   
  


* * *

  
Eichen House is dark and looks almost abandoned. 

  
Chris frowns when he looks at the building from outside. Somewhere someone looks out a window, pale hand clinging to a iron bar. The anger Chris has been feeling subdued all day only rises at the sight. Yes. Of course. That looks like a proper mental hospital that would take care a _werewolf_ gets the help he needs. Sure. 

He goes inside. 

The entrance hall is strangely empty. Silent. Chris feels that something isn’t right. He puts a hand on his gun. It feels comforting. 

“We don’t accept any new patients or visitors at the moment,” the man at the reception desk says. He looks dead tired, dark heavy bags under his eyes and his fingers are trembling around the papers he’s holding. “You should have seen the announcement at the door. Please … Come back later.” 

Chris ignores him. “I’m here to see Peter Hale.”

The man frowns and looks down at his crumpled papers, but makes no effort to look through them. “We don’t have a Peter Hale here,” he says. 

Chris wants to grab the man and shake him. “Yes, you do. But he’s in your special ward,” he says, subduing his voice. 

The man blinks. And blanches. “I’m not responsible for this ward,” he says quickly. 

Chris frowns. “Then who is?” By now he’s almost growling the words, his patience almost completely gone. 

The man swallows. “It’s … The ward actually was shut down.” 

Chris freezes. “What? Why?” 

“There was an incident. A few days ago. A break in. They somehow managed to break the mountain ash barrier in the whole building, and well …” The man swallows heavily, suddenly looking sick. “It wasn’t pretty down there.” 

Chris’ stomach drops. He has to see. Now. He ignores the man’s weak protest and walks towards the stairs, going down all alone. 

It’s too silent in Eichen's special ward. Chris’ steps echo from the walls. There’s water dripping somewhere, and from a cell come long-drawn-out moans. It’s dark, from time to time a light flickers. Chris sees broken glass and blood splatters. On the floor lie batons and bullets. Chris feels numb. Scott and the others somehow broke the mountain ash barrier and caused chaos in this ward. A lot of cells are empty and Chris doesn’t want to imagine which kinds of creatures were freed and rampaged here. 

Chris is quite sure Peter wouldn’t have missed a chance to escape, so he doesn’t even really expect to see him down here. Until he does. 

When he does see Peter, he stops dead in his steps, every thought vanishing from his mind. “Shit,” he says. 

The glass of Peter’s cell is still intact. Peter is sitting on the floor, leaned against a wall, looking utterly defeated. He’s so thin, he looks like he would break in two if he moves. There’s dried blood everywhere on him. 

When Chris says his name, Peter doesn’t react. His eyes stare blankly ahead, straight through Chris, and after a moment, they flutter close. His face is pale and there are heavy dark bags under his eyes. 

This is worse than anything Chris imagined. Eichen House didn’t care at all about the creatures locked here. The institution is a mental hospital only in its facade. And behind the facade, it’s hell. For everyone.

Chris clenches and unclenches his fists. He can’t leave Peter here. He can’t. And he shouldn’t. This isn’t how an inmate is supposed to be treated. There are rights. Only … Someone in charge seemed to think these rights didn’t account to werewolves. Chris feels sick. He knows a lot of people who think like that. Is way too close to some of them. Gerard would have liked this. He would have liked the atmosphere of despair, hopelessness and suffering floating in this hallway. He would have breathed it in and would have _smiled_. 

“Peter?” Chris asks worriedly. 

No reaction.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Chris looks for a way to get inside the cell. The lock functions with a key card, but it’s easy to manipulate the mechanism. Apparently, electricity is gone here too. “Peter? I’m coming in,” he says, trying to sound as calm as possible. Peter doesn’t look like he could attack, even if he’d wanted to, but Chris still puts a hand on the gun in his hip holster. The memory of the last time they met is still too fresh. Too painful.  
  
Peter doesn’t move when Chris approaches him and crouches in front of the wolf. From closer distance, Peter looks even worse. He’s almost skeletal, shivering in his thin clothes that can’t hold off the cold. Chris looks around in the cell, which is depressingly empty. There isn’t even a cot. Only a coarse blanket laying on the tiles. The rage intensifies and Chris tries to push it back. Peter is going to be able to smell it on him and Chris doesn’t want him to freak out. 

He stares at Peter and his mind is still horribly blank. God. He has no idea what to do. No idea at all. 

Because this … this isn’t Peter. Peter is proud and strong and hides his emotions behind a well placed smirk or wink. Peter is always well-groomed, dressed in his loved posh clothes. Peter always knows what to say, has always a snarky comment on his tongue. He’s sharp and smart and handsome and he knows it. He is everything but this. Everything but this shadow of a man. 

And Chris doesn’t know what to do. But he knows that the flickering of the light, the steady drip of water, Peter’s shallow breaths and the smell of blood is freaking him out. He has to leave. And he’s going to take Peter with him. 

Chris reaches for the horrible blanket reluctantly and wraps it around Peter’s thin frame carefully. The wolf makes a whimpering noise when he’s touched, but he doesn’t move. His lack of reaction is making Chris even more worried. Drugs, he guesses. A lot of drugs. At least, Peter’s eye open again, the usual blue faded into a dull grey. “We’re leaving,” Chris tells him. “Can you walk?” 

Peter doesn’t answer. His lips twitch, but his head lolls to the side and Chris takes that as a clear no. He lifts Peter up and God, carrying him is way too easy. Peter makes small pitiful noises when they cross the hallway and Chris’ stomach tenses. He wants to shoot something. He’s definitely going to shoot anyone who wants to stop him. There’s no one. Only nervous glances into his direction when he leaves the building with Peter in his arms.  
  


* * *

Chris looks at the passed out wolf in his bed and feels helpless. 

This is not what he does. This … It’s too much. He doesn’t know what to do first. 

He can’t deal with how quiet Peter is. He was never that quiet. He can’t deal with the bruises he discovered on Peter’s pale skin. They are not supposed to be there. And _God_ , he can’t deal with the smell. He has to breathe through his mouth to be able to stand it. He tries to imagine how bad this must be for a werewolf and fails. Peter’s nose must have become blind at some point. 

Maybe, he should get Peter out of these clothes and into something decent first, he decides. Chris tries to be careful while pulling the sweatpants off. His heart is pounding. Peter would hate this, Chris knows. He would hate being so helpless. Chris throws the dirty pants on the floor and already knows he’s going to burn them. When the thin scratchy shirt is gone, he discovers even more bruises. Bruises in different states of healing and faint burn marks. He feels sick all over again.

Such marks lingering on werewolf skin are always a bad sign. A very bad sign. There are a few reasons why a werewolf isn’t healing. Missing pack bonds is one of them. Peter doesn’t have anyone. Almost his whole family died in the fire. 

God. The fire. 

Chris remembers hearing about it as if it was yesterday. Remembers how he dropped the glass of water he had in his hand when the phone call came. It shattered on the floor and he didn’t even notice. He just stared straight ahead, while the man on the phone was telling him the Hale pack was gone, almost completely gone. Their house a burned black carcass. Chris couldn’t - didn’t want to - believe it. 

“Are there any survivors?” He pressed out, his hand clinging to the phone so firmly, it started cramping. Vic was watching him from the doorstep, her eyes wide open and alert. 

“Yes,” the man on the other side said. “Three of them weren’t in the house when the fire started. And … Peter Hale survived it. Barely.”  
  
Chris closed his eyes. Peter survived. He was badly burned and comatose - but he survived. He sat on the bed heavily, hiding his face in both hands. Oh God. How could this happen? Was it arson? The Hales … They were a peaceful family. They knew how to mind their own business. They always taught their younger family members how to control the shift, how to control the wolf inside of them. They weren’t monsters. They didn’t deserve to die like this. Peter … Peter didn’t deserve to be hurt like this. 

Chris thought about how Peter had flinched when somewhere far away in the forest something broke a branch. And then he tried to imagine how it must have been for the wolf’s senses, to be stuck in this basement, to be surrounded by flames and smoke. To hear the screams and feel the dying and the … He bent forward and vomited on the floor. Violently. 

Vic went into the bathroom and back, wordlessly pressing a towel into his hand. “Clean yourself,” she said curtly while starting to clean the floor. 

Later, when Chris sat on the bed, unable to sleep, she laid her hand on his, squeezing softly. It was way more comfort than she was usually ready to give. Chris appreciated it. “Go and see him,” she eventually said. 

Chris did. After months. Because … he just couldn’t. He was too scared. And when he finally stood in front of Peter’s hospital bed, he almost broke down. He looked at the burns and scars and Peter’s closed eyes and knew, if he knew who was responsible for this, he would kill them.  
  
Years later, he found out it was Kate. His own sister. And the most horrible thing was, that he wasn’t even that surprised. Because her words echoed in his head. The words she said to him, after she told him she knew about him and Peter. 

_“Actually, it’s not that bad of an idea. To be close to one of them. To gain their trust.”_

And he felt sick. 

* * *

Chris sighs heavily. He still doesn’t know what to do. How is he supposed to help Peter?

He’s a hunter. This … Caretaking, is not what he’s doing.

He has no idea what they did to Peter in Eichen House. Has no idea what Peter is going to do when he wakes up and the drugs wear off. Chris already sees himself stuck under a growling feral werewolf, fangs hovering above his throat, neon blue eyes glowing in that same hatred he saw when Peter stabbed him. Almost like in his dream. 

Maybe, Chris thinks dully, maybe I’m going to die in this room, killed by the man I once kissed in the middle of the night, in the woods. I’m going to die because I was trying to save someone who may be beyond saving. Someone everyone else gave up on. 

The thought isn’t scaring Chris as much as it probably should. What does he have left in this life anyway? 

He watches Peter sleep with a gun in his lap and realises the wolf must be an Omega now. A wolf without a pack. And everyone knows a lonely wolf doesn’t survive long. Well. They can be lonely together. Two lonely damaged men, probably bound to kill each other. 

  
Chris sighs and leans his head back against the cool wall, closing his eyes. He waits.


	3. Chris

When Chris wakes up in the morning, he feels like he has aged ten years since he fell asleep in the uncomfortable wooden chair. His back aches and his neck is stiff, but at least the night was calm. Peter is still sleeping on the bed, barely visible under the blanket he has pulled over his head at some point in the night.

Chris gets up with a grunt and grimaces when his muscles protest against every move he makes. When Peter doesn’t even stir, he considers it’s safe to leave the room for a while. It’s painful to walk the few steps to the bathroom, where he quickly washes his face with cold water and brushes his teeth. He has an awful taste in his mouth. Like something has died in there. 

His phone is blinking and when he looks at the display, he finds out he has three missed calls. They are all from the same person. One of his contacts. A hunter. Someone who’s been trying to help him find Kate. He ignores it for now. Kate has to wait. The thought of dealing with his sister is enough to make him feel sick all over again. For the last few months, his injury and the hunt for Kate have been the things getting him out of bed in the morning and through the days. But now Peter is right here and he’s more important. For many reasons. 

After a fast breakfast only consisting of a protein bar, Chris makes sure the whole house is surrounded with mountain ash. If Peter goes all feral, he at least won’t be able to get out and hurt someone. It also means they will truly be trapped in this house together, but well. Chris already made his choice. Now he has to wait what will happen. 

When Chris inspects the black lines, one of his neighbours walks by and waves a hand, smiling. Chris smiles back and hopes it doesn’t look like a grimace. He’s quite sure he looks like hell. Or worse. For a moment he thinks about what his neighbour would do if he knew that a werewolf is sleeping in Chris’ bedroom and he feels a combination of amusement and bitterness. His neighbour thinks his life is normal. But people like Chris know that nothing in this town is normal. 

Chris sighs, looks down at the mountain ash and frowns. What’s next? He would love to get Peter into the shower - or better, into a bath. But when he thinks about how he could feel Peter’s ribs while carrying him, he considers food is more pressing. Food and water. 

Chris goes into the kitchen and opens his fridge. It’s almost empty. No surprise. Chris is alone and on days when the depression truly kicks in, he’s barely able to stomach solid food. At least there’s enough to make some sandwiches. He goes to work and reminds himself to call someone to do his grocery shopping. He needs a lot more than toast, tomatoes and cucumber now. 

When Chris is done with the sandwiches, there’s a noise upstairs. He freezes and listens. He hears a dull thud. It sounds like something hits the floor and then there’s a high-pitched whine of pain that makes Chris shiver. He figures Peter woke up, completely confused and disoriented by the change of location. He tries to steel himself for what he might find in his room and goes upstairs, leaving the food in the kitchen for now. He doesn’t want to overwhelm the werewolf. 

When Chris enters his dim bedroom, he hears a low growl and stops dead, reaching for his gun instinctively. It's been in the holster at his hip the whole time. Solid and comforting. “Peter?” Chris asks. The wolf isn’t on the bed anymore. It takes a moment until Chris discovers him, huddling in a corner, the blanket wrapped around his body. His eyes are gleaming and Chris realises he’s shifted. Not good. “Peter?” He tries. “It’s Chris Argent.” 

For a moment, there’s silence, only disrupted by frantic breaths. Then: “Where ... “ Peter starts and stops, coughing. Chris is relieved to hear the word. Maybe Peter isn’t that far gone when he can still form a coherent thought. “You’re in my house. I got you out of Eichen. Do you remember?” 

Peter frowns. “Out,” he echoes. It sounds disbelieving. 

“Yeah. I couldn’t … I had to get you out of there. I’m sorry, this must be confusing,” Chris says, raising both hands in a calming gesture, approaching Peter further. “You were pretty out of it yesterday.” 

Peter blinks slowly. He sniffs the air and frowns. “You’re … real?” 

The question hits low. Right in the guts. “I’m real. I can show you. Here.” He stretches out his hands carefully. “You can touch me.” 

Peter looks at them, his face blank. After a moment, he starts to shake his head. “No. You … You can’t be here,” he murmurs and Chris’ heart sinks. He clears his throat and pulls his hands back slowly. “Alright. I know this is a lot. You should get back to bed. Rest some more. We can talk when you feel better ...”

“No!” Peter says with sudden ferocity. He presses his back firmer against the wall and shakes his head again. “You … This is just a trick. It’s not real. You’re not real …” Peter starts to tremble. His eyes widen in fear. 

This is so, so wrong, Chris thinks stunned. All of this is so wrong and so not Peter and God, he just wants to … 

“Peter ....” Chris reaches out on instinct. Trying to put a hand on the wolf’s shoulder. Peter snaps back like he was burned and snarls and something in Chris thinks that’s it, that Peter is going to lunge forward, sharp claws reaching for Chris’ throat because Chris was fucking _stupid_ , but instead, Peter just shuffles further away from him, bending over and making himself small, whining in pain. 

And to Chris’ horror, he reaches up and tugs at his own hair, with fingers still ending in claws. Shit. He’s going to hurt himself, Chris realises with a growing desperation. “Peter, stop,” he says, feeling horribly helpless. This isn’t what he expected. Not at all. Peter doesn’t stop. He pulls firmer, his breaths frantic and wet. 

Chris doesn’t want to scream. He really doesn’t want to. But he’s not reaching Peter. He inhales deeply and yells sharply, “Stop! Stop hurting yourself!” 

Peter’s breath hitches. He lets go of his hair, staring up at Chris with wide eyes. He whines and turns away, trying to press even firmer against the wall. Chris sighs. This is working out great … Just great. He stands there and waits, for something. He doesn’t know for what. At least, Peter seems to calm down a bit after a while, his breaths coming more steady. He swallows heavily and Chris remembers the water. And the food. “I’m back in a moment,” he tells Peter and leaves the bedroom, feeling heavy and tired already. The way into the kitchen seems to take ages. He fetches the sandwiches and a bottle of water and returns. 

When Chris comes back into the bedroom, Peter is still crouching in his corner, the blanket wrapped around him like a shield. Chris takes care to walk slowly, trying to seem as non threatening as possible. He puts the water bottle and the plate with the sandwiches on the floor in front of Peter. 

The werewolf watches his every movement, his eyes wide open. 

“You must be hungry,” Chris says softly. “Eat.” 

Peter eyes the food and for a moment, Chris thinks, he’s going to reach for it. But then, Peter just sighs shakily and closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. It looks hauntingly close to how Chris found him in Eichen. 

Chris is not sure if he should stay or leave now. But in the end, he thinks it would be better to give the wolf some space. He doesn’t want Peter to feel like this is just another kind of prison. It’s bad enough he has to surround his house with mountain ash. He hopes Peter is going to eat after a while, when he realises it’s not going to be taken away from him. 

“I’m downstairs if you need me,” Chris says. “The bathroom is over there,” he gestures vaguely. “If you want to take a shower. Or need the toilet.” 

Peter doesn’t react. Chris didn’t expect him to. 

He sighs and leaves the room, going back downstairs. For a while, he just paces from the living room to the kitchen and back like a caged tiger, not knowing what to do with himself. In the end, he sits on the couch and reaches for a book. He can barely focus on the letters and reads some pages two, three times, but at least he calms down. Time passes. Chris considers going for a walk like he usually does at this time, but he doesn’t want to leave Peter alone. He listens for any noises from above, but hears nothing. Nothing at all. 

The clocks keep ticking. 

In the early evening, Chris decides to check on Peter. Nothing changed when he comes back into the bedroom, frowning at the smell. Peter didn’t touch the water or food. It doesn’t look like he left the corner at all. Chris thinks about opening a window, but doesn’t know if Peter is going to freak out. God, he thinks stunned, there wasn’t even a window in that damn hellhole. No chance to see something else than blank walls and the glass. Fuck. 

Looking at Peter, Chris runs a restless hand through his hair. He needs help. Deaton? No. Chris doesn’t trust him. Not completely. And he knows Peter doesn’t either. 

Braeden .... He doesn’t even know where Braeden is right now. Maybe with Derek. Besides, she’s way better at shooting than she is at healing. 

Melissa. Melissa doesn’t know as much about the supernatural as Deaton does, but she still is a doctor at her heart, still learned a lot over the last years, with her son dragging hurt supernatural creatures into her hospital. It’s worth a try, Chris decides. He’s desperate enough. 

He leaves the bedroom and the trembling werewolf in the corner behind, goes downstairs and calls Melissa, hoping she’s not working right now. She picks up almost immediately. “Chris?” 

Chris scratches the back of his head. “Hey. Melissa. Uhm. I have a …” It doesn’t feel good to call Peter a problem. “I have someone here. He’s not well. And I wondered, if you could, uh …”

“Werewolf?” Melissa interrupts. 

“Yes.”

“Tell me about his condition.” She’s curt. Firm. God bless her. 

Chris thinks. “I got him out of an underground prison cell. He’s confused and disoriented. He has bruises that don’t heal. He seems to be in pain. He’s malnourished and also dehydrated I guess, and I don’t really know what to do about it. He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t move. Basically, he’s just staying in a corner, hiding and trembling.” 

Melissa hums on the other side. “I’m packing a few things and come over. I’ll bring a strong sedative.” 

“Okay. Uh. Melissa?”

“Yes?” 

“Could this be between the two of us right now?” 

There’s a very curt moment of silence. But then she says, “Alright.”

“Thank you.” Chris ends the call, feeling relieved but at the same time worried. What will Melissa say when she hears the whole story? 

He goes back up to his bedroom. Peter is still sitting in the corner, but it looks like he has fallen asleep. His eyes are closed and his breaths even. 

The food and the water are still untouched. Chris sighs. He wonders if Peter’s subconscious is worried about the food being poisoned. Maybe he will eat if Chris demonstrates him it’s not. Maybe. He sits in his chair again, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. He waits. After a while, there’s a knock at the door downstairs. Melissa, the saint, doesn’t use the bell and Peter only flinches, but doesn’t really move.  
  
Chris goes to open the door, smiling weakly at Melissa, who looks up at him attentive and is carrying a heavy looking bag. “Hey,” she says. They hug briefly and Chris leads her into the living room. 

“You look tired,” Melissa says. Her eyes say more and Chris knows he looks like hell, she’s just being polite. He shrugs. “I slept in a chair. And it was a short night.” 

“That bad, huh,” Melissa murmurs, putting her bag on the table. “Where is he?” 

“Upstairs. In my bedroom.”

Melissa frowns. “Why didn’t you bring him to the hospital? It’s not like I didn’t cover for werewolves before. Is it someone I know?” 

“Yes. You know him.” Chris runs a hand through his hair and sighs. The moment of truth arrived. “It’s Peter. Peter Hale.” 

Melissa startles, her hand tightening around the handle of her bag. She stares up at him incredulously. “You have Peter Hale in your bedroom? How did that happen, Chris?” 

Chris sits down on a chair heavily, putting his elbows on the table. He nods towards the empty chair opposite him. For a moment, he thinks Melissa is going to turn around and leave, but she sits as well, still frowning. Chris clears his throat. “I got him out of Eichen House. They … They didn’t treat him well, Melissa. He was denied everything that you would call basic human rights. You should have seen that cell. He didn’t even have a bed. He’s emaciated. Drugged up. And … I think they hurt him. He has bruises and he was scared of me touching him. He’s hiding in a damn corner, buried under a blanket, Melissa.”

“Peter Hale. Hiding in a corner,” Melissa says, sounding shocked and disbelieving. 

Chris nods. “I can show you.” 

Melissa chews on her lower lip. “Scott said they would help him there,” she says slowly. 

“Scott didn’t know how they treat werewolves. No one knew, including me. But ... I’ve seen something like this before. People thinking werewolves are no better than animals. And they treat them as such. It’s like someone kicking a growling dog chained to a pole, just because they can. Please, just look at him. He’s … It’s not pretty, Melissa.” 

She chews on her lip some more, but eventually nods curtly. “Alright. Show me.” 

Chris exhales a relieved sigh. He gets up and God, when did his legs become so heavy? He leads Melissa upstairs, to his bedroom. “Peter?” He asks. There’s a shuffling noise and then something that sounds like a growl turning into a whine. Chris switches on the light and reveals Peter still crouching in his corner. He hisses and blinks into the sudden brightness, curling into himself and starting to whine again. 

Melissa’s breath hitches. “Okay,” she says slowly. “This is concerning.” Chris sees with relief, that her expression is softening. She clears her throat. “So, how exactly do we do this? I want to help, but I also really want to keep all my body parts,” she whispers. 

“I know. Just … Hand me the sedative. I’m going to inject it. You’re sure it’s enough to put him under for a while?” 

Melissa nods and gives Chris a syringe filled with a clear liquid. Her eyes are still focused on Peter in the corner, her expression showing that she can barely believe what she’s seeing. 

Chris hands her his gun. “Here.” 

Melissa shies away from it, grimacing. “Oh. No, I don’t …”

Chris shakes his head and presses the gun into Melissa’s reluctant hand. “Yes. You do. He hasn’t attacked me so far, but … Just in case. Better be safe than sorry. You know how to use it?” 

Melissa nods. “Noah has been teaching me since last summer. I think I’m passable.” 

“Good. Don’t hesitate,” Chris tells her. He takes a deep breath and approaches Peter, with slow but firm steps, like he would approach a wounded animal. 

Peter flinches and growls. His eyes flash and Chris resists the urge to reach for a weapon that’s not there anymore anyway. It’s hard to fight years of training. Years of being told to hate, to hunt and kill. Another unwanted memory comes up.  
  


_He’s nine and scared. He stares up at a dead werewolf that’s dangling from a tree by a rope wrapped around its neck. The face is contorted into the wolf shift. Frozen onto it forever. Long fangs, claws, golden eyes dim but still intense._

_Gerard watches him, his eyes hard. “Never forget, Christopher,” he says slowly. “Never forget that no matter how human they might look at first, they are monsters. Monsters hidden behind a human facade. Don’t let yourself be fooled. Don’t trust one of them. Only trust yourself. They are animals and eventually, they will snap. It’s inevitable. They can’t help it, like the wolf can’t help killing the sheep. And what are you going to do, if they snap, Christopher?”_

_Chris swallows heavily, his eyes still focused on the softly swaying body. “I’ll kill them,” he says, like he knows it’s expected from him._

_Gerard nods, satisfied. “You’ll kill them. Because only a dead werewolf is a good werewolf. Remember that.”_

_Remember that._   
  


Chris shivers and pushes the memory away. He notices how close to Peter he is by now. The growling stopped. All Chris can hear are frantic pants. He crouches down slowly, until he’s on eye level with the werewolf. “Peter. I have to do something. Do you trust me?” 

Peter stares at him. He doesn’t blink. “No,” he says hoarsely. 

Chris isn’t surprised. Not really. He nods curtly. “I know. But you have to. Because you’re not well. I want to help. Melissa does too. You can smell her, can’t you?”

Peter’s eyes flicker to the side and his nostrils flare. “Doesn’t matter,” he murmurs and sounds so tired, so defeated, that it makes Chris’ stomach clench. “It’s not real.” Peter closes his eyes again, his head falling forward on his chest. Chris almost thinks he passed out, but when he moves, Peter growls again. Loudly. This time, it sounds a lot like a warning. 

Chris swallows. There’s only one way to do this, he realises. Fast. He has to be fast. 

“Peter,” he says firmly. “Look at me.” 

When Peter raises his head, Chris moves forward quickly, pushing one of Peter’s shoulders back against the wall. Peter makes a frightened noise and bares his fangs, trying to bite Chris arm. But Chris is already prepared and the wolf’s movements are shockingly slow. The fangs barely graze his skin. He pulls his arm back and raises his other hand which is holding the syringe he has kept hidden behind his back so far. He pushes it into Peter’s neck in one swift movement. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs as he presses the plunger down. 

Peter whines. He flinches back and his head hits the wall with a dull thud. Chris feels terrible. He doesn’t want to know how often Peter was drugged in Eichen House and how it might have been done. He watches as Peter slumps, his body shuddering and one of his hands raising sluggishly, reaching for his neck, for the needle still sticking in it. The sedative works astonishingly fast. In seconds, Peter’s eyes flutter close, his fangs and claws retreat, and he falls forward, right into Chris’ arms. He lifts Peter up, once again shocked at how little the wolf weighs, and carries him to the bed. 

He carefully lays Peter down on his back and nods at Melissa who approaches, handing back the gun. Chris takes it. “I’m sorry for the smell. I couldn’t get him to shower,” he says with a weak smile. 

“Oh trust me. I know worse,” Melissa murmurs. She takes Peter’s wrist, feeling for a pulse and Chris can see her switching into nurse mode. Once again, Chris is glad they have her. She’s such a calm and sure presence. It feels good to have her here. To not be completely alone with this anymore. 

When Melissa pulls the shirt Peter’s wearing back, she inhales sharply. Chris swallows. He has to admit it looks a lot worse in bright light. Peter’s skin is still littered with bruises. Some are almost as big as the palm of a hand. 

“How could they … It is supposed to be a mental _hospital_ ,” Melissa breathes. Chris nods grimly. “It’s nothing but a hellhole,” he says bitterly. “They care even less for the supernaturals than they do for their human patients.” 

“Some of these bruises are quite fresh,” Melissa says, frowning. “But … shouldn’t he be healing? He’s a werewolf.” 

Chris shakes his head. “It isn’t that simple. A werewolf is weak without a pack. That’s why Omegas never survive long. A pack gives its single members strength. They heal faster and are stronger together. Wolves aren’t supposed to be alone. But Peter is. He has no Alpha. No proper pack bonds. He has to heal alone and that takes almost as much time as it would take us. People think werewolves are always powerful and dangerous creatures. But that’s a myth. Being a werewolf doesn’t automatically mean being invincible.” 

“I see,” Melissa says quietly. He watches as she carefully prods at Peter’s chest, where the bruises are the biggest and most colorful. 

“I think at least three ribs are bruised,” she says. “His right wrist is sprained. He shouldn’t move too much. Or he’s going to do more damage to himself. I’m giving him something for the pain.” Chris nods, astonished by how much she sees. He didn’t even notice where Peter is in pain. Melissa fetches some vials from her bag. “I’m going to take a blood sample. If he was drugged, it’s likely he’s going to go into withdrawal. Or he’s already in it, judging by the trembling and the cold sweat on his forehead.” 

“Great,” Chris mumbles. Anger stirs in him again. It intensifies, when Melissa turns one of Peter’s arms and they discover bite marks on the inside. Most of them are faint, but some are red-rimmed. “These look self-inflicted,” she says quietly. Chris remembers how Peter had pulled at his own hair and nods, one of his hands clenching into a tight fist at his side. 

Melissa finishes drawing blood and goes on with her careful but thorough examination. “He’s definitely dehydrated. So I’m going to set up a drip. Thankfully, the sedative should be strong enough to let him sleep for a few solid hours. And he really is malnourished. I would start with things like chicken broth, plain toast. Things he can stomach easily. A lot of fluid. As much as possible.” 

Chris sighs. “I hope I can convince him to eat something. He didn’t even touch food so far.” 

Melissa nods and continues working. Her face gets more grim with every passing minute. Finally, she sighs and says, “I think that’s all I can do for now. He’s going to be out for quite a while. Let’s talk downstairs.” 

Chris nods.

They go back into the living room in silence. “Coffee?” Chris offers. 

Melissa smiles. “Thank you.” 

They sit at the table, steaming mugs in front of them. 

“Physically,” Melissa says after a while, “He’s not that bad. His ribs and wrist should heal fine. The bruises too. And you have to get him to eat and drink, to fight dehydration and malnourishment.” 

Chris reads what she doesn’t say in her worried expression. “You think the most damage might be mental,” he states. 

Melissa sighs. “Yes. And we all know he wasn’t in a good mental state before. This just adds to everything else.” She reaches for her bag and pulls out a few pill bottles. “I’m stealing way too many prescription meds, and I have no idea if they will even work on a werewolf, but well … It’s worth a try I guess.” She points at a bottle. “This is for insomnia and nightmares.” She gestures towards another. “This is for panic attacks. And this is for eventual hallucinations or paranoia. I wrote you a list how and when they should be taken.” She hands a piece of paper with her neat handwriting on it to Chris. He takes it and feels like hugging her. 

“Thank you, Melissa. You are the best,” he says honestly. 

Her lips twitch, but she stays serious. “So … This is supposed to be a secret? You don’t want Scott to know? What do you think he’s going to do? Tell you to put him back there? You know … I don’t think Scott wanted Peter to suffer like this. It’s not, who he is.” 

Chris hesitates. “I know. But ... I just feel like we should wait. I think Peter is going to need a lot of time to heal. And actual therapy.” Like almost everyone here including my sorry ass, he thinks grimly. 

Melissa frowns. “That’s a bit difficult, isn’t it? Getting a werewolf therapy? I mean … it’s difficult to hide what they are.” 

“There are some people in this profession who know about the supernatural. I actually know someone. But ... I didn’t see her in years. She left after … after she talked to Derek about the fire many years ago and got some ugly threatening letters.” Chris feels his throat tighten when he thinks about it. Now he doesn’t need to imagine anymore who would do something like this. He knows it. Knows who’s responsible for this. For everything. “I will try to find out her current location. Maybe, she can be persuaded, to come back and help.” 

Melissa is still looking at him. Chris feels like she reads him. Like an open book. 

“What are you thinking?” He eventually asks, smiling weakly. “Do you think I’m insane?” You would be right, probably, he adds in silence. 

But Melissa shakes her head. “I think you did the right thing. I mean … I know he did bad things. He bit my son. He hurt and killed people. But he also went through an awful lot of trauma and should have gotten proper help.” She chews on her lip, her eyes going distant. “I remember the fire, you know? I remember when it happened. It was a tragedy. Everyone was shocked. So many people dead ... I remember a younger Derek in the hospital. I remember how he begged me to let him see his uncle. He was crying so much, he could barely get the words out. And he looked like he was in a lot of pain. He kept making these awful choked off noises and was clutching at his stomach, at his chest. Now I know why, of course.” 

“Destroyed pack bonds,” Chris murmurs, his chest aching. “A lot of them.” 

Melissa nods. “I told him he could see his uncle later. I told him everything would be alright. I was lying of course. I knew Peter would die that night. He was so badly burned and inhaled so much smoke, it was a miracle they got him to the hospital alive. I lied to Derek so he would calm down and I brought him hot chocolate.” She smiles weakly at the memory. “I felt bad for Derek, because I knew he would lose someone else soon. But then … Peter didn’t die. He didn’t wake up and he was so weak, they could barely get a pulse. But he didn’t die.”

“There was still enough pack left, to keep him alive until his body could try to heal itself,” Chris says. 

Melissa nods. “But Derek left. With someone else who survived. I always wondered about it. It made me sad that Peter had almost no visitors in all these years.” 

“They were scared,” Chris says quietly, feeling rage stirring behind all the sadness and sorrow. “They were fleeing … Not feeling safe in Beacon Hills anymore.” He knows by now, that they were threatened too. By Kate and whoever was helping her back then. Shortly after he learned the truth, he wondered, why Kate didn’t kill Peter in the hospital, when he was vulnerable and helpless, but then a painful and horrible realisation hit him: Kate enjoyed it. She enjoyed knowing that she was the one who put Peter into this state. 

God. How often did she go there? How often did she look at Peter’s scarred face and _smirked_. 

“Chris?” Melissa asks softly, and he notices he is gripping his mug so hard, his knuckles turned white. 

“Are you alright?” Melissa questions. 

Chris sighs. “It’s just … Memories.” He doesn’t say more, but her eyes fill with sympathy and she reaches over the table to touch his hand briefly. Then, she gets up, reaching for her bag. “I have to leave. My shift starts soon.” 

Chris nods and gets up as well, accompanying her to the door. “Thank you, Melissa. Thanks for your help. It means a lot.” 

Melissa nods and hugs him again. It feels good. She’s warm and solid. “Just call me, if you need something,” she says. “I really hope he will feel better soon. But if he doesn’t start to eat and drink on his own, we’ll have to think of something.”

“I know. I’ll do what I can. Goodbye, Melissa.”

She smiles. “Goodbye, Chris. Take care.” She turns, walking towards her car. Chris watches her leave and feels awfully alone again.


	4. Peter

“How does it feel to be in love?”

Peter frowns. The question surprises him. Especially because it comes from his pubescent nephew who scoffs whenever emotions are mentioned and tries to act so cool it's almost cute or straight out annoying at times. But now Derek is looking at him wide-eyed and expectantly from where he’s sitting on a moss-covered rock, chewing on his lower lip. 

Peter sighs. “Really? You want to talk about love _now_? I was about to show you how to get out of a hunter’s trap. That’s much more entertaining, I promise.” He grins in happy anticipation. Derek doesn’t know yet he’s going to end up in an actual trap Peter set up earlier. Peter can’t wait to see Derek dangling from a tree. He really is a horrible person. But when it keeps Derek save in the future, it’s worth it. The end justifies the means after all. 

But Derek doesn’t seem too keen on learning about traps. He keeps on staring at Peter with his puppy eyes 

“Alright. I should warn you though. I don’t think I’m the best to tell you about what love is supposed to feel,” Peter murmurs. He thinks a moment and then says firmly, “It hurts. A lot.” 

Derek frowns. “It hurts?” He sounds both concerned and doubtful. 

Peter shrugs. He goes to a tree and scratches a random pattern into the bark with a claw, trying to find some better words. “Well, it’s not the kind of pain you feel when you’re injured. It’s more on the inside. It’s like something pulls at your heart. Pulls it into a certain direction. It’s an ache. Also, you can’t stop thinking about them. It’s like … like they are branded into your soul. Into your heart. With everything. With their smell and warmth and their smile. And when you’re with them, the ache lessens, but it stays. It just … It changes. It makes you want to touch them. Makes you want to be connected to them all the time.” This is how wolves feel love at least, Peter guesses. A longing, aching, possessive kind of love for the one mate they find in life. Or lose.

“An ache and a pull,” Derek repeats thoughtfully. He looks dreamy all of a sudden. Peter frowns. His senses sound the alarm. Horror scenarios appear in front of his eyes. “Derek. What did you do?” 

Derek blushes. “What? Nothing! I … There’s that girl in my class. And … and I think I really like her? But I’m not sure if she likes me. She seems to think I’m an idiot. And when she’s close, I feel like something pulls me towards her? I don’t know.” He shrugs and looks away, radiating embarrassment. 

Peter feels both worried and relieved. He really didn’t want to have _that_ talk now. But it just seems to be a crush. Maybe not even reciprocated. He feels a bit sorry for Derek, who sits there looking like a kicked dog, heartbroken and longing. But well. Derek’s so young. He’s going to find someone else. Hopefully another werewolf. No one the pack has to worry about. No one they have to introduce to the supernatural first. 

“Have _you_ ever been really in love?” Derek abruptly asks with a sudden hint of shyness in his voice. 

Peter swallows. He tries not to think about a certain boy at school and fails. He thinks of Christopher Argent staring at him in the classroom. He thinks of the smell of leather and gun oil. Thinks of crystal blue eyes and a confident grin. “I don’t think so,” he murmurs, kicking a stone that flies away into the bushes. He takes a deep breath. “No more chatting. I’m here to teach you a lesson, pup. Get up.” 

Derek groans and rolls his eyes dramatically, but he obeys, jumping off the rock and approaching Peter, his eyes more alert now. 

It turns out Derek is way better at escaping a trap than Peter initially thought. But it’s funny to watch him dangling and yelling obscenities nonetheless. When he’s back on his feet and stopped retching, Derek swears revenge and Peter laughs some more, his stomach already aching. Derek lunges at him with a growl and Peter throws him on his back with ease, still trying to get his laughter under control. It’s one of these rare moments in his life when he feels real satisfaction.   
  


But only a few weeks later, Peter sees Derek with Paige. Mistakes are made and everything tumbles quietly downwards from there. Like it always seems to do. 

Powerless, Peter watches his younger self destroying Derek’s happiness. He watches Derek’s eyes turning blue. Before he can apologize, the pictures fade. They dissolve in black streaks, like ink being dunked in water. 

* * *

Peter doesn’t know what’s happening. His mind is a labyrinth. Everything is blurry and vague. Memories and dreams blend into each other, forming a confusing puzzle missing some pieces here and there. He drifts in and out of consciousness, never really knowing what’s real and what’s not, never really knowing where or when he is.  
  
His emotions scream havoc. Sometimes, all he feels is numbness. Sometimes, desperation nags at him. But the next moment, he feels rage so hot and white, it burns every other sensation away. It feels a lot like back then, when he was losing his mind. It scares the hell out of him. 

In the rare moments he’s lucid enough to distinguish between reality and illusion, he knows he’s not at Eichen anymore. He’s still sitting on a floor, but it’s different. It has a carpet and there’s a blanket wrapped around his shaking body. The blanket, the floor, the surprisingly soft clothes he’s wearing and the room itself, everything smells of Argent. Christopher. _Argent_. 

At first, everything inside him recoils. Recoils from the smell, that raises unwanted memories and is connected to too many people regularly haunting his nightmares. His wolf wants to run. Wants to run from the hunter, the enemy, the threat. From the son of a hateful werewolf slaughterer and the brother of the woman who burned Peter’s family. 

But another part of him remembers a different Christopher. A Christopher who once kissed him in the forest. Who told him he wanted it, on a party, flashing lights dancing over his longing face. A Christopher who looked hurt when he was rejected, who quickly tried to cover the hurt in cold calm indifference, strolling back to the woman Peter knows his father picked for him. _Christopher._

Christopher is there. He’s in the room most of the time. Peter doesn’t understand what’s happening. Why is he here? What is Chris doing? Why does it feel like he’s burning from the inside, why is he so weak, why … Distantly, Peter guesses he’s running a high fever. But that’s ridiculous. Wolves aren’t catching fevers. They don’t get sick.  
  
Chris tells him he’s not well, in that calm, soothing tone Peter hates so much. Chris tells him he has to eat, drink and rest. He says a lot more things, but Peter can’t really focus on them. The words float through the air and then vanish. Chris vanishes too, sometimes. His image gets blurry and his voice fades into the void. 

The surroundings change. He’s back at Eichen House and Scarface holds his lighter into Peter’s face, the flame so little but still so hot. The smell of it makes Peter feel sick. He tries to get away from it, but he can’t. Two other guards are holding him down firmly and the lighter comes closer, until the flame almost licks at the side of his face. It’s the exact same side the scars were on, so long ago. Peter snarls and writhes, tries to get out of their grip, but they just laugh. He’s too drugged up, too weak to fight them. The next moment he feels it. The heat first and then the sharp pain of the flame touching his skin. Burning him. He screams and bares his fangs, snapping at the hands holding him. 

He buries his fangs in warm soft flesh of an arm and feels a bitter hint of triumph when he hears a hiss of pain. That’s right. He’s not broken yet. He’s never going to give in. He’s going to … to … 

“Peter!”

He knows that voice. But it can’t be … This is just another kind of torture. He’s just hallucinating. And of all people, he has to hallucinate Christopher Argent. It’s fitting. He growls and digs his fangs deeper in flesh, tasting iron on his tongue when he draws blood. The flame is gone. Finally it’s gone … 

“Let go, Peter. You have to let go.” Chris again. His voice sounds strained, but still calm. So calm. He’s always so calm. Peter is tired. He relaxes his jaw and lets go. The arm is pulled back. The smell of blood is heavy in the room. He can see a shadow crouching beside him. It’s Christopher. He says something, but Peter doesn’t hear him. He tries to understand what this is. Is this a dream, or a hallucination? Did he pass out from the pain? If so, he hopes he can stay here a little while longer … The carpet floor is so much more comfortable than the tiles in his cell. It smells of Christopher. 

The next time, Peter is halfway lucid and he catches a glimpse of Christopher, he has a bandage wrapped around his arm, and Peter thinks he understands what's going on. Maybe. 

But then he slips into another illusion, and the cycle begins again. 

* * *

The fire is haunting Peter the most. It’s no big surprise.  
  
He’s back at the basement and everything is heat, smoke and screams. He’s blind with fear and desperation, throwing himself against the mountain ash barriers, trying to get at least the smallest of the pups through the barred window, but it’s no use and his family is dying around him, he can feel it. He doesn’t know how, but suddenly he lays under the sky. The stars are gone. The thick smoke rising up is hiding them. Someone talks to Peter. Someone tells him to breathe. To hold on. Peter doesn’t want to. He wants to crawl back inside the burning house, lay down beside his family and die. 

But there are hands carrying him away from the smell of smoke and burned flesh. Hands that put him on a gurney and shove him into an ambulance with flashing lights. Someone pulls an oxygen mask over his face and his destroyed lungs try to fill with fresh air but are barely able to hold it. Peter closes his eyes and succumbs to the darkness. He won’t wake up from it for a long time. 

When he does wake up, he can’t move an inch of his body and everything hurts. His body is trying to heal itself, but it’s a slow and agonizing process, filled with failures due to the destroyed pack bonds, his weakness and desperation. He listens to doctors telling students it’s a miracle he survived the fire, but they don’t think he will wake up ever again. He wishes once more he would have died with his family.

He doesn’t have a lot of lucid moments. And when he has them, he wants to escape them again. It’s too painful to be aware of what happens. What happened. Or to think about whose fault it is. Hunters … It must have been hunters. Since Gerard returned, they became so much more determined and aggressive. Peter has been warning Talia for years. But she held on to the fickle peace, the truces and empty promises. She never wanted to listen when Peter told her there are people who just hate werewolves, no matter how they behave. No matter if they kill humans or not. And now it happened. Peter soon thinks of Chris and his stupid flirting attempts. Thinks of Chris kissing him in the forest. He sets the pieces together and it forms a horrible picture. First, Peter sees red, then his heart seems to burn in a whole other kind of fire. He tries to find it. Tries to find the information he gave Chris that could have led to this. But … He has never talked to Chris about the basement or the secret tunnels. Never … He’s confused. He doesn’t understand. 

Until there’s Derek. Derek crying in a chair beside the bed, sobbing and rambling about Kate Argent. About her compliments and touches and promises. 

“I was so stupid. I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know … Laura wants to leave. She says we’re not safe here. I don’t want to leave. I don't want to run. I want to stay. I … I’ll kill them if I have to! I will find her and kill her, I … God. I’m so sorry.” And Derek leans forward, putting his forehead on the bed and weeps.  
  
Peter knows Derek will be gone soon. He’s going to follow Laura. The wolf inside him is going to follow his Alpha wherever she tells him to go. It’s just instinct. It’s ok. It’s not Derek’s fault. He wishes he could tell him so. He wishes he could tell him that Kate Argent did a horrible, despicable thing and he’s not to blame. He’s a victim. They are all victims now. Victims no one will speak for. 

But he will take revenge. It’s the only thing he has left, he soon realises. He clings to the rage and disgust inside him. Clings to the name he wants to wipe out. Argent. Argent. _Argent_ … The rage and the faint but still existent pack bonds are what keep him alive and help him healing. It takes six long years and with every year he feels like losing another part of his mind. But he heals. And the rage stays.  
  
Over the years, he barely receives any visitors. But there’s one visit that makes him even stronger, because it intensifies the rage that keeps him fighting.  
  
  
One day, Kate Argent visits him.   
  


Her smug face hovers above his all of a sudden and his wolf recoils with a frightened angry growl. She chuckles, her eyes sparkling in ugly glee. 

“Look at you,” she says. “Look at the big bad wolf. I could kill you now, you know. You’re harmless like a kitten like this. But _this_ is just too much fun. Watching a dangerous wild creature rotting away in a hospital bed is spectacular. I’m a bit disappointed I didn’t get to see Derek here. Or at the morgue. You wolves are just like mosquitoes, aren’t you? Difficult to get rid of. Annoying. But it’s alright. I don’t think you are going to be a danger anytime soon or ever again, Peter. And you’re all alone. Your little friends fled and I don’t think they are going to come back, especially not Derek. I don’t even know if you can hear me. I hope you do. I really do. Because …”

Kate comes even closer, until her breath is tickling his skin and he would have flinched back if he could. Or go for her throat. She leans into his personal space, grinning when she continues talking. 

“Because I want you to know I enjoyed it. I enjoyed burning your pack to the ground. It was one of the best things I did in my life. And I know I did a fucking great job. I wiped out a threat. A threat for the humans of Beacon Hills. This city belongs to them. It belongs to the humans, not the monsters.”

Her voice is dripping venom. It’s thick and black. It burns his mind even more. Especially, when she starts to talk about Christopher. 

“He never loved you, you know? It was just a stupid fixation. He was curious and wanted to be close to the threat. After all, they say it’s best to know your enemy. He never loved you and he never will. Why should a hunter love such an abomination? We were trained to hate your kind since we were children. And now,” she strokes her finger over the scarred side of his face, dragging it down slowly, her fingernail scratching the skin oh so softly, “Now he wouldn’t even be able to look at you, with your destroyed face. Tragic, really.” She straightens up. “I have to go now. But don’t worry, I’ll be back to check on you. Be a good dog for me, Peter.” She leaves, humming under her breath. 

Peter’s wolf rages inside him. 

And for long, it’s only rage he’s feeling. But when he gets too tired to be angry anymore, he tries to hide in a farer corner of his mind, where the happier memories are buried. He avoids memories of Christopher, because they are stained now. They will forever be stained. He doesn’t know if Chris knew about Kate’s plan. He might have helped … 

He focuses on memories of his family. His pack. Because as insufferable as they often were, they always were home. There always was a gentle brush of a shoulder as a welcome. There always was comfort if needed. There always was someone leaving their scent on his skin, marking him as theirs. They were there for each other. Family. Pack. Safety. Now they are gone and Peter has no one. 

He has no one, he … 

“Peter. You have to drink some water for me.” 

Christopher’s voice is back. His touch is back. He holds a bottle of water to Peter’s lips and he drinks greedily, his throat dry and raspy. “Slow down,” Chris says calmly. But it’s too late. Peter already coughs and sputters. Chris puts the water bottle away and wipes a tissue over Peter’s chin. “Told you to go slowly,” he says.  
  
Peter groans. He sinks back into soft pillows and blinks in confusion. What … Where and when is this. This is no memory. Or is it? 

It’s another moment that joins the mess in his mind. 

There are quite a few. And they all involve Christopher. 

Chris lays cold washcloths on Peter’s burning forehead. Chris takes the extra time to brush his hair back or to pull the blanket up to his chin. Chris sits in front of him on the floor, sharing pieces of his toast with Peter as if he was an actual wolf. Chris is at his side, when Peter more or less falls off the bed, when he tries to get to his feet and to the bathroom. It’s Chris who supports him, who leads him through the hallway and helps him to sit on the toilet, to stand in the shower, to get out and back into his clothes. 

Although he’s never quite sure if this is real, something inside Peter breaks a little bit more every time he’s being so helpless, but something else enjoys Chris’ gentle yet firm touch so much, it almost scares him.

* * *

One day, Peter wakes up and feels like he’s actually awake, not just floating from one dream into another. He still feels exhausted and confused, but at least he can feel his body. He sits up in bed, looking around. His eyes fall on Christopher, who sleeps on a mattress on the floor. Peter blinks. So, it’s all been real. He’s not at Eichen anymore. He’s at Christopher Argent’s house. Christopher has been taking care of him the last few days and he guesses Melissa McCall was here a few times too, leaving her scent on him. 

But … Why?  
  
Peter doesn’t understand. Why did Christopher got him out? Why didn’t he just leave him there. Peter tried to kill him. Tried to kill Scott. What reason could there be for Chris to get Peter out of his well-deserved isolation and put him into his own house? 

The stirring questions are tiresome. Peter already feels like falling asleep again, but he still eyes the door. It’s ajar.

“Thinking about leaving?” 

Peter flinches. He looks at Chris, who watches him with one eye open. Of course, the hunter is fully awake in a second. “Would you let me?” Peter asks, using more than one coherent word for the first time since he arrived here. 

“No,” Christopher says, slowly sitting up. “The house is surrounded by mountain ash anyway.”

Peter nods. He didn’t expect another answer. He considers telling Chris he’s tired of plotting and planning and running into his own almost-death, that he's tired of almost everything, but he keeps the thoughts for himself. It's better not to let his guard down. Not in front of a hunter of all people.

Chris runs a hand through his sleep-ruffled hair. “You’re better.” It’s not a question. Rather a statement. 

Peter shrugs. “How bad was I?” 

Chris sighs and rolls his shoulders. He grimaces. “Well. In the beginning, I was mostly worrying about you being almost starved to death, drugged up to the rim and completely exhausted. After a while you went into withdrawal and apparently suffered through a few flashbacks and hallucinations, until the meds Melissa gave me were actually working. You bit me twice, you tried to jump out of the window once, I had to sedate you like four times and at one point you apparently thought I was my sister and went for my throat, so I had to knock you out, but well. That’s it, I guess.”

Peter stares at him in shocked disbelief. “What?!” Now he notices a lot of scratches on Chris' exposed skin. A bandage is still wrapped around his arm, and Peter starts to feel sick.

Chris nods. He gets up with a grunt and a grimace. “Yeah. It was tough for both you and me, trust me. But ... I'm glad to see you’re better now.”

Peter takes a deep breath. He feels horrified at the thought of being … so out of control. So helpless. So vulnerable. How much time will it take to re-build his facade? He glares at Chris, trying not to show his dawning desperation. “Why am I here anyway? Why … Why didn’t you let me rot in that cell. Or put a bullet in my head, to put me out of my misery? Isn't that what you do?” 

Chris looks at him and sighs. “I couldn’t leave you there … You didn’t deserve what they did to you. It was wrong. If I’d known what was happening there, I would have gotten you out way sooner.” 

Peter blinks. His confusion gets even stronger. “Why would you even care? Why … You didn’t have to come to see me. I stabbed you with an iron rod.” 

Chris flinches. He actually flinches. Then, he lowers his head. “Yeah. You did that. But … God, Peter. Can’t you feel it? Smell it?” 

“What?” 

Chris sighs, wiping a restless hand over his face. He drops in his chair. “Over the last few days, I was thinking a lot. I thought about the past. The present. And … I can’t deny it, Peter. I would be lying. I still want it.” He looks up, his eyes clear and open. More open than they have been the last few years. His voice is thick with resignation. “I still want you.”

Peter freezes. _I still want it_. The words are an echo of the past. They feel like a slap across his face. He flinches back violently. “Stop that!” He hisses. “You can’t … You can’t start with this years after you told me you were leaving with your precious hunter wife your father picked for you! Years after your psycho sister burned my family! Years after ignoring me, avoiding me!” 

“The way I remember it, you were the one telling me we were just fooling around back then,” Chris says, his eyes narrowing. “I came to you. I told you I wanted it! That I wanted to go further. But you told me to go back to my girlfriend. So I did. I moved on, because I had to!"

Peter snarls. “I was protecting my family!” 

“Well. And I was trying to protect _you_. Gerard was always suspicious! Kate figured it out and I was scared she would tell him! You know, if you hadn’t sent me away, I might have tried to run away with you! I was in love with you!” 

The words cut deep. Too deep. Too late. “Shut up!” Peter yells. He jumps off the bed with a growl that turns into a whine. His legs feel weak. They buckle beneath him and the world gets blurry in front of his eyes, but he ignores it. He paces the room and eyes the door, considering running away. But then he remembers. He glares at Chris. “Break the mountain ash barrier. Now.”

Chris smiles weakly, leaning his head back against the wall. “No. You can’t always run away, Peter. You can’t run from everything. From everyone.” 

Peter growls, he approaches Chris, letting his eyes flash and his fangs drop. Chris looks at him unfazed and calm. “Break it, Argent. Break it, or … or I …”

“Or what, Peter?”

Peter grabs Chris by the collar of his shirt, pulling him up - or at least he wants to. He’s not strong enough to actually do it. Chris ends up half sitting half standing, looking at Peter with this stone calm expression on his face. Now that he's so close to the hunter, Peter can smell something strange on him. Something new. Numbness. Desperation. Resignation. The combination is surrounding Chris, is laying on him heavily. For a moment, Peter wonders. But then, he tells himself he doesn't care. He doesn't want to care. He tightens his grip and growls at Chris. “You can’t do this," he tells him. “You can’t trap me here and, and tell me these … these _things_!” 

Chris’ eyes narrow. He straightens up in Peter’s grip, glaring at the wolf. “ _Yes,_ I can. And I have to. You’re my responsibility now. It’s your fault people can’t trust you. You were given a chance, but you gave it up for what? For power? What is your power worth when you’re all alone and miserable? I got you out of your cell. I could have left you there. You would have died. But I cared and I got you out. I took care of you until you were better. I …” 

“Well I didn’t ask you to do it!” Peter yells into Chris’ face. “I didn’t ask to be saved by a hunter! I was ready to pay, I was ready to die! If you really are so keen on saving me, where were you years ago, when your sister killed my family and I was going insane in a fucking hospital bed!” 

Chris expression softens. “Peter …” His hands come up, covering Peter’s clawed ones that are still clutching the collar of Chris’ shirt. “Peter, let go. Let go, let’s talk about this. I want to talk. I …”

Peter just slams him into the wall with a pained whine and Chris gasps, his knees buckling. Peter turns and runs. He runs down the stairs and through a living room. He rips open the door and takes three steps until the mountain ash barrier stops him. He stumbles back with a gasp and a curse. 

He sinks down on the floor, breathing heavily. He feels tired. Confused. Angry. Restless. He sits in front of the door for quite a while, until Chris’ approaches him, leaning against the wall. “What now? Do you want to try to kill me again?” 

“No,” Peter says hoarsely. 

“Good. I’m going to make something for supper then. Melissa says you should still rely on things that are easy to stomach, so I fear it’s going to be soup again,” Chris says, shrugging and grinning weakly. 

“Soup’s alright,” Peter murmurs, turning around. Away from the door. Away from Chris. He pulls his knees to his chest and hides his face and the desperate expression imprinted on it without a doubt. 

“Okay.” Chris leaves for the kitchen, rubbing the back of his head.

* * *

When they finished their meal, it’s getting dark outside. Peter takes a shower. Alone. He leans against the wall and closes his eyes, enjoying the feeling of the hot water hitting his skin. He's eager to get clean. Really clean. He doesn't even want to remember the smell blinding his nose in Eichen and even here, when he was half-feral apparently. He feels so humiliated it's almost painful. Humiliated and. violated.  
  
He vaguely remembers Chris being here too, steadying him, and he shudders at the thought. What is happening here? Chris’ heartbeat didn’t skip once today. He was telling the truth. But why would he still be interested? Is Peter still interested? He can’t tell. Not at the moment. It’s just too much. Too much to process.

They are other people now. A part of Peter died in the fire and how can Chris know that it wasn't exactly this part he was in love with? He certainly can't be in love with what and how Peter is now. It's not possible. 

Peter can't even stand looking at his reflection in the glass of the shower screen. His body is gaunt and horribly ungroomed. His eyes are bloodshot and his hair is too long. He has to loosen knots in it with his claws. He doesn't want to search for a brush. Doesn't want to have Chris on his skin even more. The thought of the hunter alone fills him with a fresh violent rush of rage.

What the hell was Argent thinking when he spilled the beans?! It can't be. It's way too late for such confessions. Too much happened. There's too much between them and their names. Christopher lost his wife and daughter. He probably is still numb with grief and imagines things that aren't there. That's it, Peter decides grimly. Nothing more than past memories and their afterglow.

He grits his teeth as the anger rushes through him in hot waves. He wants to hate Christopher for this. Hating him is so much easier than the alternative: Admitting to himself that his subconsciousness enjoyed being taken care of much more than he should have, considering he has been exposed to a hunter the whole time.

He turns the water off and shivers.

When Peter comes into the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his hips, Chris is sitting in his chair again, staring straight ahead. He turns his head when Peter approaches, looking at him. They don’t say anything. Peter reaches for the fresh clothes laying on the bed without a comment and puts them on, not caring much if Chris gets an eyeful. He has never learned to be discreet. But he tries to move as sure and graceful as possible, tries his best to show that he doesn't need help, although his body feels heavy and the world sways around him from time to time. He has the feeling Chris is watching him, but when he looks at the hunter, his head is turned towards the window, his eyes distant. “I didn’t know,” he says quietly. 

“What?” Peter frowns.

“I didn’t know what Kate was planning. I had no idea. If I’d known, I would have done everything I could to prevent it. What Kate did was horrible. It was … No words are enough to describe how I feel about it. There is no day I don’t think about it. No day I don’t feel sick to the stomach. She had no right … I hate her for it. Every day. I know you can hear I’m not lying. And if you need another prove, do your claw thing. Take a look into my memories.”

Peter blinks. “You … You would let me do this to you?” He asks, surprised and disbelieving. 

“Yeah.” Chris sounds so sure. He doesn’t even hesitate with his answer. “Maybe, that would be for the best … If you’d see and feel …” He shrugs.

Peter tilts his head. “It’s dangerous. You could die. Or end up in a wheelchair, paralysed."

Chris nods. “I know.” 

“But you still would let me do it?” 

“Yes.” 

Peter exhales shakily. A curious part of him really wants to do this. Wants to see and feel. Another part doesn’t want to hurt Chris. And isn’t that annoying. The curious part wins out of spite. “Okay. I am going to do it,” he says firmly and shows his claws, almost expecting Chris to shy away from them. 

But Chris merely nods. He gets up and sits on the bed, putting his hands on his knees and lowering his head. “Go ahead,” he says. 

Peter swallows. This is trust, he realises and it feels like too much. Before he can start to think about it, he steps forward and raises his hand. After a last look into Chris’ face - calm and sure - he takes a deep breath, and digs his claws into Chris’ neck in one swift moment.


	5. Chris / Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for Kate and Gerard being disturbing, for some blood and violence, and for child abuse. Tell me if I forgot anything!

Christopher is eight years old when his mum dies. 

It’s a vicious kind of cancer. She has never stood a chance. But she tried to fight back anyway. 

His father isn’t there when she slowly loses the fight. He’s on a business travels like usually, trading his quality weapons. 

Christopher sits at his mother’s bed for hours and holds her hand. He’s shaking. His heart aches and a storm of thoughts rages in his mind. 

He can’t help her. He can’t force the cancer out of her body. He’s going to lose her, and he can’t do a damn thing. He feels so weak. Helpless. He hates it. Hates it so much. He grits his teeth and clenches his free hand into a tight fist. The burning pain of his nails digging into his flesh is keeping himself from jumping up and throwing the chair against the wall. 

Chris starts to cry. One of the tears drop on the white blanket covering his mother’s thin body. 

His mother cups his face and smiles at him weakly. “Christopher. My little Christopher Robin. I love you so much. Promise, you are going to follow your heart, when you have to. Promise me.” 

Chris promises. He holds her hand until she stops breathing. 

He keeps himself from breaking apart. He has to be there for his Katie. In a blank hospital hallway, he holds his little crying sister in his arms and he has never felt so alone before.  
  


His father is there at the burial. He doesn’t say a word and doesn’t shed a single tear throughout the ceremony. “She was soft,” he tells Chris later, when they are driving home. “She coddled you. But that’s over now.” 

Christopher doesn’t understand what he means, and he’s too much in pain to ask. His mother is really gone and it feels like the world is missing a piece. 

The next day, he wakes up in a dark basement, gagged and tied to a chair. He’s alone. And his first instinct is confused panic. But he also feels rage. It’s the same rage he felt at his mother’s bedside. And this time, he throws the chair. 

He thrusts himself backwards with so much force, that the old wood cracks underneath him. He slips out the slackening ropes, jumps to his feet and is about to search for an escape, when he hears a slow clapping. 

His father is standing in front of him, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. For the first time Chris remembers, there’s a hint of proud in Gerard Argent’s steel eyes. “Trés bien,” he says. “You’re ready. Ready to continue our family’s ways.” 

Christopher doesn’t understand. Until his father leads him into his secret basement and shows him a monster. First, Chris screams. Then, he listens. And learns. 

* * *

  
For the next few years, Chris is a hunter in training. He is a hardworking student, but he can never satisfy his father. There’s always something. He’s too slow, too clumsy, too wild, too hasty, too hesitant. 

Every insult causes him to work harder. 

He learns everything about werewolves and some other supernatural creatures. He learns to track his prey, learns to set up traps that don’t fail - when they do fail, he goes to bed without eating - he learns to hide his scent and to use all kinds of weapons. 

Sometimes, Gerard wakes him in the middle of the night, asking him questions. A wrong answer earns him slaps in the face, that shake his sleepy body awake. 

He learns. He’s not fast, but he's determined. He wants to make his father proud.

* * *

In a cold winter night, Gerard takes him on a hunt for the first time. 

They help a few other hunters who are investigating some murders in their village. 

Christopher is so excited, he can feel his blood boiling and hears his heart pounding. “Get yourself together,” his father tells him with a hint of amusement in his voice. “The wolf will be able to smell your premature excitement ten miles against the wind!” The other hunters laugh. It’s not a mean laugh. Someone pats Chris’ back and he feels warm. He feels like one of them. 

The hunt is over fast. The wolf is only an exhausted, sick Omega. It snarls at them, but it is also ducking away, looking frightened and desperate.

Christopher stares into the gleaming blue eyes and the sharp fangs in fascination, although he's a bit disappointed. This is not exactly a vicious beast.

The wolf doesn’t beg for its life. Doesn’t try to escape. It only assures them it didn’t kill anyone and doesn’t know who did it. 

Gerard decapitates the wolf with one swift strong movement. Chris holds his breath. 

“We have a code, Gerard,” one of the other hunters says and frowns. “He said, he didn’t do anything …” 

Gerard huffs. “You and your code. These monsters don’t care about any code, Thomas. They have no honor. You can’t trust them. This thing didn’t have a reason to tell you the truth. It was an Omega anyway. Wouldn’t have survived another week, for sure.” 

The other hunters don’t look comfortable. But no one says anything. Because they wouldn’t dare to speak against an Argent, Christopher realizes with a hesitant feeling of proudness. 

Gerard fixes his firm gaze on Christopher. “Next time, _you_ kill the beast.” 

Christopher swallows and nods. “Yes Sir.” 

* * *

Next time comes soon enough.  
  
Next time, it’s not a young, sick or exhausted Omega. This time it’s a wild, rogue and aggressive lone wolf which is responsible for four murders in a village, and it almost kills Christopher. 

Gerard sent him on the hunt alone, with only a gun and a knife. Christopher is in the middle of nowhere and no one hears the startled scream that escapes his throat, when the creature lunges at him, throwing him backwards into the snow and going for his neck. The wolf is fully shifted, his sharp fangs are hovering above Christopher’s skin. He can feel hot breath and a wet trickle of drool. 

The wolf growls and prepares to kill. Christopher manages to get his arm between his throat and the fangs, gasping in pain when they dig into his flesh. But his action buys him time. He brings his legs up and kicks the wolf as hard as he can, getting him off. The werewolf snarls and prepares to jump at him again. Christopher draws his gun and shoots three bullets into the wolf. 

It whines and falls backwards into the snow. Christopher watches as it tries to crawl away instead of attacking again. It tries to crawl back into the forest, leaving pools of blood in the snow. Eventually, the wolf shudders and goes still, sinking down. Christopher holds his breath. He thinks the werewolf won’t be a threat anymore. So he gets up with a grunt, pressing his injured arm against his chest. He staggers toward the beast, bending over it. He expects to see a dying beast. But what he actually sees, is a dying man.  
  
The werewolf shifted back into his human form. He’s oozing black blood now and Christopher knows the wolfsbane is doing its work.  
  
His first kill. He should feel proud, he knows. But he just feels … tired. He stares at the body in front of him and wonders, what the man’s name was. Where did he live? Did he have a family? Why did he kill people? 

_Because this is a monster_ , his father’s voice whispers inside his head. _It’s just a monster and eventually, they all kill. Because it’s their nature._

Christopher sighs. He pulls out his phone, to tell his father about the successful hunt and to beg to be picked up. He needs a bath and his bed. 

Much later, there’s a celebration. Gerard is in a good mood. He ruffles Christopher’s hair and tells him he’s a good boy. It feels good. But it also doesn't. It’s strange. 

Kate doesn’t try to hide her jealousy. “I want to kill a monster too,” she pouts. 

Gerard laughs and pats her back. “You will, Kate. Don’t worry. You two are going to make me very proud. You’re going to keep our family strong and successful in the future. I can see it.” 

* * *

Kate is drinking up every word their father says. She is so eager to hunt, to kill. One time, Christopher finds her crouching in front of a deer. An arrow is sticking out of its belly. It’s still alive, its eyes wide and blank, breath slow as the life slowly leaves the body. Kate sits and stares, transfixed. “I shot it,” she says to Christopher when he approaches. “I tracked, found and shot it.” 

“You didn’t shoot it properly, Katie,” Christopher says slowly. The way she watches the deer dying is making him feel very uncomfortable. “You have to put it out of its misery.” 

Kate huffs in annoyance. But she pulls out her knife and slits the deer’s throat. Fresh blood heats up the snow. 

“Imagine this was a werewolf,” Kate says, her eyes sparkling. 

“A werewolf would have scented or heard you long before you saw it. You would have ended up being the one who’s hunted. You’re not ready.” 

Kate scoffs and glares up at him. “I’m just as ready as you! It’s just because you’re older and a boy and everyone thinks I’m not strong enough! But I am. And I will prove it.” She raises her chin up defiantly. 

Christopher smiles weakly, feeling mildly amused, but also strangely worried. 

* * *

Christopher is used to a lot of moving. He thinks Beacon Hills is just another stop of many. Just another small town with a monster problem they have to solve. 

On his first day at school, he dreads the obligatory introduction. He hates being stared at. But he still forces himself to keep his head up and his gaze firm. Because he doesn’t want them to think he’s shy or someone they can shove around. 

His teacher lays her hand on his shoulder and smiles at the class. “This is our new student, Christopher Argent.” 

Christopher lets his eyes wander through the class, automatically scanning everything and everyone for a possible threat. When the teacher says his name, he sees someone in the back row perking up. A lanky boy frowns and his blue eyes widen momentarily in surprise while the expression on his face stays impassive. But Christopher doesn’t miss the twitch of his lips. When everyone else already loses interest in the new one, the boy is still staring at Christopher. Without blinking. Chris just stares back provocatively.

He gets the table right beside the staring boy. From close distance, he looks even more handsome than he did from afar. He tilts his head and watches Chris from the corners of his eyes, his leg bouncing restlessly. 

Suddenly, the teacher calls, “Mr. Hale? Are you paying attention?” 

The boy perks up and now it’s Christopher’s turn to be surprised. Because … he knows the name Hale. It rings a certain bell. Hale. Then he remembers. Remembers his father’s words. “The Hales are an old pack. They have been living in Beacon Hills for a long time, passing the werewolf gene on to the next generation and it feels like every year there are more of them. Disgusting. But it’s unlikely that the killer is one of them. They are careful. They know how to keep away from trouble and how to be discreet. But of course, they still are monsters and when one of them snaps, I will personally pay them a visit. With my gun.” 

Christopher gulps and feels the urge to jump up and leave the room. 

The boy sitting beside him is a fucking werewolf. 

Just great. 

He sighs heavily. Of course that has to happen to him. Of course. 

Hale throws him a casual glance, and to Christopher’s anger and horror, the boy smirks at him. His blue eyes are sparkling mischievously and Chris’ stomach sinks. Oh. _Fuck_. 

* * *

Christopher doesn’t tell Gerard or Kate about his encounter at school. He doesn’t even exactly know why he wants to keep this to himself, but he does. 

The next day, he can barely focus on the teacher’s words, too occupied with feeling threatened and strangely drawn at the same time. He reaches down to feel the soothing handle of the knife hidden under his jacket and Hale looks at him like he knows, his brows arched. 

When the lesson is over, Hale jumps up and is out the room before Christopher can pack his things, but he hurries after the werewolf, not even exactly knowing _why_. 

When Christopher discovers him, the other boy is searching around in his locker. Chris approaches him, clenching and unclenching his hands. He doesn’t know what to do. Or to say. He has never met a werewolf like this. Has never been in a situation where he’s supposed to sit beside one in silence instead of trapping it. Has never been so close to one of them without a gun in his hand. He thinks and finds no coherent thoughts. But there’s still something coming over his lips. 

“You’re a werewolf,” he blurts out the absolute obvious and wants to slap himself the next moment. 

Hale slams the locker door shut and turns to face Christopher, raising his chin. “And you’re an Argent. A hunter. What now, huh? Are you going to put a wolfsbane bullet into my head here in the hallway? Or do you want to do it outside?”

Christopher frowns. He opens his mouth, but doesn’t find an answer. This doesn’t happen often. And it makes him feel absolutely unnerved. 

“What’s wrong? Why so hesitant? Didn’t your father tell you what to do when you meet a monster?” The other boy asks, leaning against the lockers and crossing his arms. He looks not like a monster at all. 

“There hasn't been an Argent in Beacon Hills for ages. What are you doing here?” He asks when Chris doesn't say anything, narrowing his eyes. 

Chris is glad when his words start functioning again. “Something is killing people in this town. A lot of people.” 

Hale shrugs. “Well, shame but it’s definitely not someone of _my_ family.” 

“Family,” Christopher echoes with a frown. 

Hale looks amused. “Yeah. Family. Oh, sorry, I forgot. You prefer _pack_. Because I’m an animal, right? I bet you think we live in a network of underground caves hidden deep in the woods and feast on poor little animals we mangle with our claws and fangs.” His lips twitch. 

Chris huffs. “I’m not stupid, you know?” 

“Oh, are you sure about that?” Hale chuckles. 

Christopher grits his teeth. He desperately wants to hit this cocky idiot. 

“Anyway,” Hale says, backing away from the lockers and grabbing his bag. “I have to pick up my nephew before he tears one of his poor innocent classmates into shreds. Excuse me, Argent.” He deliberately bumps against Christopher when he leaves and Chris thinks he hears Hale sniffing at him, maybe to memorise his scent, but he doesn’t care. He feels restless and in fact, like an idiot. 

* * *

Christopher doesn’t ask to be seated somewhere else. Something inside him hopes the werewolf will find it just as annoying to be so close to a hunter. And another part of him is way too proud to back off. It’s the wolf who should leave if he wants. 

But Hale doesn’t disappear either. 

One day, they have to pair up for a project and Christopher is on the verge of asking for another assignment, but again, he’s too proud. 

Hale is impressively lazy and mostly watches Chris work, the hint of a smirk always lingering on his face. 

“You could do something too, you know wolf?” Christopher eventually snarls. 

The other boy raises his chin. “It’s _Peter_. I have an actual name. I know, shocking.” He sighs dramatically and defiantly reaches for a book. 

Christopher glares at him and wants to say something smart, but he just snaps, “I can’t stand you!” 

Peter narrows his eyes. “Yeah, well. I can't stand you either. What do you think it is like to smell you the whole time? You stink.”

“Oh, you don’t like the wolfsbane I carry with me? I’m so, so sorry.” Chris smirks. "It's my favourite parfume. It keeps away so many annoying animals." 

Peter actually _growls_. It’s quiet and low. But it’s there. He lowers his head and stares at the book instead of saying something snarky.  
  
That’s a point for me, Christopher thinks, feeling quite smug. 

* * *

One day, after school, Christopher sees Peter with his nephew. Without a doubt another werewolf, Chris figures. The younger boy is kicking a ball against the wall while Peter talks to him with a certain firmness in his eyes. His nephew shrugs and buries his hands deeper in the pockets of his black leather jacket. Peter looks frustrated and just a little bit desperate. Chris almost wants to smile, because the situation looks so familiar … Peter’s nephew seems to have just entered the most annoying stage of prematurity.

Suddenly, Peter notices him. He raises his head and glares at Chris from the distance, his eyes flashing golden for just a second. Chris holds his breath. Peter lays a hand on his nephew’s shoulder and pulls at him. The boy makes a face but follows Peter. They leave. 

Chris stares after them, not knowing how to feel. He figures he should be watching them. Observing them. To make sure they aren’t hurting people. But … something inside him wants to know Peter better. Peter doesn’t fit the picture Gerard painted for Christopher. The picture of the wild beast, the instinct-driven monster you can’t trust.  
  
He seems like an ordinary student, trying to take care of his younger rebelling nephew, writing good marks while still being lazy and drawing cars into his notebook. He seems _normal_. 

The conflicting thoughts about Peter follow Christopher home. Follow him down into the basement, where his father talks about how they are going to catch the beast. They even follow him into his bed. He lays there on his back, his arms behind his back and stares up at the ceiling, thinking. Wondering. Realizing. He doesn’t only want to know more about Peter and his life. He wants to know Peter. He wants to know how he smells, how his skin feels under his hands and how it would feel like to kiss him. That scares him. He didn’t even figure out yet, if he likes girls or boys, or both. His father made sure that for him, there’s only one option. Christopher is going to marry a woman of another hunter family, to continue the tradition. 

Christopher sighs, rolls around and buries his face in his pillow, trying to get Peter out of his head - and fails. 

* * *

A week later, after many glares and snarky remarks and sharp short talks in the classroom, Peter saves Christopher’s life. Chris doesn’t realise, doesn’t notice how close he comes to the rogue wolf killing people one night. He is trying to set up a trap, when he hears the growl coming from between the trees. He freezes and slowly reaches for his gun - which isn’t there. Chris gasps in horror and shame. How could he? How could he forget … He’s _dead_. 

There’s a louder growl and then he can hear the beast jump. Chris waits for the impact. But suddenly, there’s another angry growl and something hits the rogue wolf with full force, throwing it against a tree. The beast whines and snarls and prepares to attack the other werewolf that crouches low in front of Chris, pushing him aside. Chris stumbles back, feeling numb and confused. He blinks and he can’t see well in the dark, but he can see that the other werewolf is _Peter_. Peter is shielding him from the rogue wolf crouching only a few metres away, growling and snapping. The next moment it attacks again and Peter lunges, going for the other werewolf’s throat. For a long moment, they are just a blur, an intertwined mess of sharp teeth and claws and angry growls. Chris watches helplessly, flinching when he hears a pained howl. 

The movements stop and Peter backs away from the knocked out rogue wolf, breathing heavily and reaching for his shoulder that’s bleeding from a deep gash. He looks at Christopher and his eyes are sparkling golden in the darkness, his fangs still out and stained with blood. 

Christopher stares back and doesn’t feel how he usually does when he faces a shifted werewolf. He doesn’t feel threatened. He feels … protected. “You … you saved my life,” he says hoarsely, disbelieving. 

“What the hell were you doing here without anything to defend yourself? You were wrong on that first day. You _are_ stupid,” Peter snaps while he’s shifting back into his human form, his wounds already healing. “You’re fucking stupid, Argent!” 

“Yes. Maybe I am,” Christopher murmurs, shrugs and grins sheepishly. 

After a long moment, Peter scoffs and grins too. He points towards the other werewolf. “All yours. I can smell the insanity on him. It’s an Omega and he’s way too far gone to be saved, unfortunately. You can tell your family you were a hero tonight.” He gets up and starts to walk towards the trees. 

“Wait!” Chris calls out and Peter stops, looking back at him in surprise. “Thank you,” Chris says firmly. “Peter,” he adds. 

“You’re welcome, Argent. Just tell no one I saved your sorry ass,” the wolf murmurs and disappears. 

Chris looks after him, his heart pounding. 

He never forgets his gun again.

* * *

The Argents stay in Beacon Hills although the threat is gone. Chris feels like Gerard wants to watch the Hales. Wants to look for an excuse to kill some more werewolves. It makes him worry for Peter, but he can barely tell his father to leave. He also doesn’t want to leave. Not really. 

His talks with Peter became less snarky. They look differently at each other and when they have to do another project, they reach for the same book at the same time, their hands accidentally touching. Chris freezes and Peter makes a startled noise. They look at each other and Chris feels like his heart is jumping an enthusiastic loop in his chest. “Sorry,” he mumbles, letting Peter take the book. “No, it’s alright,” Peter says after a moment, strangely polite, handing the book right back. “You can have it.” Chris smiles and he’s not sure, but he thinks he can see a light blush on Peter’s face. 

Chris finally admits to himself, that he has a terrible crush on Peter. That he is in love with him. 

It’s both exciting and terrifying. He knows his father would freak out if he knew. Being in love with a boy is inacceptable. Being in love with a werewolf … that’s inexcusable. Argents are supposed to hate werewolves so much, they kill themselves in case they are bitten and turned. They are enemies. They can’t be lovers. Chris tries anyway. His mother told him to follow his heart and he does, for once. 

He stops acting like he doesn’t care. Instead, he brings Peter his favourite sweets and takes him on walks after school. Peter seems … suspicious at first. He’s tense. Erratic. But after a while, he seems more relaxed. His smiles are more open and his words more gentle. He still snaps at Chris from time to time, but the words lost their sharpness. And Chris starts to feel somewhat special, when he spots Peter in school yard, how he is leaning against a wall far away from anyone else, his chin raised and his arms crossed - looking like he isn't part of this world but rules it - but how his eyes light up when they discover Chris among the other humans that mean nothing to him.

On one of their walks, Chris asks Peter to tell him about werewolves. Not the things he already knows - or thinks to know - from Gerard. He wants to know about family. Wants to know about pack bonds, about grooming, about the roles every single wolf has in the pack. They walk in the forest for hours. Peter shows Chris his favourite spots and talks a lot about being a born werewolf. Chris is fascinated.

Peter's family is all about control. They have strict rules. Every member of the pack has to learn how to control their wolf on the full moon. They are supposed to use their shift only to defend themselves or the pack. They feel and know when someone is in danger, because of the bonds between them. Pack bonds are so strong, Peter explains, they are helping a wolf to heal, to be stronger. Losing them would be like losing a limb. Peter’s role in the pack has always been the one of the lecturer and protector. He’s teaching his younger nephew how to control the wolf inside him, and he protects the pack from possible threats. Chris almost wants to ask then, if Peter saved him because they already share a connection, but he keeps that hopeful and way too romantic thought to himself. 

Peter shows him a little waterfall and moss-covered rocks. A beautiful, silent and peaceful spot. They stand there for a while, watching the water flow. They are standing so close, Chris can feel the heat Peter is radiating. He can hear his own heart pounding and when Peter turns his head to look at him, Chris kisses him. On the lips. It’s a chaste kiss. Quick and almost shy. But Peter doesn’t flinch back or looks mortified. He makes a soft noise Chris wants to cherish forever, and licks his lips. 

Chris smiles and they flirt for a while. He finally gets to use some of his French. Chris thinks he should tell Peter everything now. It’s a perfect moment for a love confession, he guesses. But then, Gerard’s voice echoes through the woods and destroys the peaceful atmosphere. Chris is scared. He doesn’t even want to think about what Gerard would do, if he saw them here. Together. So he tells Peter to go. 

Peter looks hurt. Chris wants to tell him he doesn’t mean it like … like _that_. But he can’t. He can only watch Peter leaving, calling a hopeful “See you tomorrow?”, that remains unanswered. 

_Fuck._

* * *

Kate discovers his secret. Of course she does. But it almost doesn’t matter, because Peter starts to ignore him. Starts to avoid him. 

It hurts. A lot. 

Chris figures this is how it feels when one’s heart is broken. 

He wants to kiss Peter again. He wants to be alone with him in the woods again. Only the two of them, only Peter and Chris, not werewolf and Hunter. 

It hurts and it hurts even more, when his future starts to spread out in front of him. 

His father finds him a woman. “She’s the daughter of another important hunter family. You’re going to marry her. It’s a good catch. She’s smart and firm. She’s going to be a good decision-maker, a good leader.” 

Christopher only nods in defeat. 

Her name is Victoria. Chris likes her. But not like that. She can’t make the ache in his heart go away. 

When they visit a club, he’s glad to see Peter there, until he notices the wolf is supporting himself against a wall, his face contorted into a distressed grimace. Of course. All these mingling sensations must freak him out … Chris excuses himself and leaves Vic for a moment, approaching Peter. With every step towards the werewolf, he feels more lightheaded. Maybe, he thinks - hopes - he’s going to listen and believe me, that I still want to be with him. That I’m still in love with him …

But Peter snaps at him, his eyes filled with anger. His words are like a knife, cutting into Christopher’s heart. When Peter tells him to go back to his girlfriend, when he tells Chris they are _enemies_ , he realises that’s it. They’re not going to be together. There’s not going to be a them. His heart breaks and all the fantasies, of running away with Peter, of not giving a fuck anymore if he’s an Argent or not, everything breaks with it. 

He goes back to Vic on legs that feel too heavy, not even looking back at Peter anymore. It’s over.

* * *

Christopher hunts a lot the next years, but he always follows the code his mother taught him. The code Gerard finds stupid and weak. Chris sticks to it, because a werewolf saved his life once and he knows they are not just monsters. 

A part of Chris knows that Peter only wanted to protect his pack back then. It makes sense. But it obviously didn’t help much, because years later, when Chris left Beacon Hills, married Vic, and when they have a little child - his Allison, his angel - there’s a fire. It destroys most of the Hale house and almost the whole family dies in the flames. 

Chris’ heart shatters all over again when all the memories of Peter are refreshed, when the hunter on the phone tells him Peter is badly burned and comatose. He has to sit down because his legs won’t carry him anymore. He clutches at his chest and tries to get his breathing under control. It hurts. It hurts so much. Why did this happen? Why … The police thinks it's an accident. Bullshit. A whole pack of werewolves being killed is no accident.

When Christopher finally finds the strength to visit Peter in hospital, he feels like he’s going to drown in the pain. It has been so long. Peter isn’t a boy anymore. He is a grown man. One side of his face is entirely covered in scar tissue. He’s too still and too hurt. He isn't healing. Chris knows it’s because of the pack bonds. Oh God. So many snapped pack bonds. 

Chris’ heart burns. He sits and holds Peter’s hand in his, feeling the tears running over his face. He hasn’t cried in years. 

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I left. That I wasn’t here. That this happened to you. I … I never stopped thinking about us. I never stopped being in love with you. I’m sorry. I wish I could change the past, Peter. I wish …” He stops talking, because it’s stupid. He’s stupid. It’s too late and now Peter is gone. 

Because, when he asks a doctor, “Is he ever going to wake up again?”, she sighs and shrugs. “We can’t tell yet. After they got him here, he flatlined a few times and was in a very critical condition for a long time. Now, he’s stable but his condition is stagnating. There are no signs of responsivity. He still could get worse. Or better. But we just don’t know. In any case, the remaining family members want to prolong life support as long as possible.”

The remaining family members … They left. They left Peter alone. Chris figures it’s because they are scared. And he can get it, but still. What about Peter? He feels empty. 

After the hospital visit, Chris drives to the house. Looks at the black carcass in front of him, feeling numb. 

It hurts so much to think about what happened here. Hurts too much to think about Peter witnessing his family burning, dying. It hurts too much to think about the panic, the pain and the desperation lingering in the air here. 

Chris can’t do this. He gags, gets in the car and drives away. 

He’s abandoning Peter just like the remaining Hales did. And his heart shatters a few times more. 

Only a few years later, he returns, because he’s called. Something, they tell him, something is happening in Beacon Hills. Something kills people. Bites people. An insane Alpha. 

There are so many truths being revealed, it’s too much. 

He finds out Peter is the Alpha. He sees Peter burning and dying again. He sees him coming back to life, all the while acting so strange and completely avoiding Chris. When they see each other, Peter is not even looking at him. Chris realises his Peter is long gone. But he’s also still there. Only buried under ash, buried under layers of pain and rage.  
  
He finds out Kate is responsible for the fire. His own little sister. He can’t believe it. He stands in front of her, completely stunned, staring into her cold face, staring at her smirk. 

“What did you do?” He asks in a broken voice, agony rushing through him. It can’t be. She couldn’t … His own sister. His Katie. No. It can’t be. 

But Kate just shrugs. “I did what our family has always done. I killed the monsters. I eliminated the threat.” 

Chris feels sick. “We have a code! There were children in this house! Humans. Innocents. How … how could you!” Peter … Kate burned Peter. Kate did this to Peter. She destroyed him, she put him into that hospital, she put him into a come that lasted six damn years, she caused him to go insane with pain and rage, caused him to try to get power to take revenge.

“You started this. _You_ are the monster,” he says quietly, hoarsely. 

Kate gasps. For the first time, her calm facade slips. She looks almost shocked. But then she glares at Chris, hiding herself behind rage. “And you’re weak, Christopher. You have always been weak. You are the one who were lusting after the fucking enemy. I did you a favour with burning these mutts. Who knows, in the end, you maybe even would have become one of them, my own brother!” 

Chris can’t stand this anymore. Can’t stand _her_ anymore. He leaves, leaves with his broken aching heart and his disgust for his own family.   
  


_We are the monsters …_

* * *

Chris looks into Peter’s eyes while the wolf pushes the iron rod through his body. He looks into his blue eyes and searches. Searches for a glimmer of the boy he was in love with. But there’s only rage and disgust, he thinks. And he knows from where it’s coming. Oh he knows. 

A part of him wants to give up now. Wants to end this misery of a life. He tried so hard to go into a different direction than the rest of his family - but too late. Way too late. And he lost so much on the way here … He lost Vic. He lost his Allison, his angel. He lost them. He almost lost himself over the years. And he lost Peter, long long ago. 

I’m sorry, he wants to say when Peter stares up at him, his eyes filled with hate. 

I’m sorry …

  
 _I love you_. 

* * *

* * *

Peter gasps and staggers back, breathing heavily. All the new images in his head mingle, the feelings rush through him like a waterfall. It’s too much. It’s overwhelming. 

Chris looks up at him from where he’s sitting on the bed, his fingers reaching for his neck, to the thin trickle of blood drying there. 

They stare at each other. 

It’s silent, apart from Peter’s heavy breaths. He groans, the echo of Chris’ pain shaking him, mingling with his own. The echoes of the past … They are violent and so clear now. He saw. He felt. And now he knows. And oh God, it _hurts_. 

They stare at each other. 

In the end, Peter thinks he’s the one who moved first. But maybe, they moved at the same time, crashing into each other like two colliding cars. 

Peter is pressed back against the wall when Chris kisses him violently. He gasps and Chris growls, his hand grabbing a handful of Peter’s hair. They kiss like it’s a battle. And maybe, it is. They somehow stagger to the bed together, without breaking apart. Peter falls on his back and Chris hovers above him and something about this is wrong, but also shockingly right. Peter tilts his head back and moans when Chris immediately mouths at his neck, biting the skin there. Peter claws at Chris’ back and tears the fabric of Chris’ shirt. Chris’ hands are all over him, feeble and possessive. 

It’s wild. It’s perfect. He hasn’t been touched for so long, and now there’s Chris, surrounding him, touching him like he owns Peter and in a way, he does. They both know it. Knew it from the start. Somehow, Chris loses his shirt and Peter eagerly touches naked skin, runs his fingers over it, until … Until he touches and sees the ragged scar at Chris’ hip and remembers. 

“I hurt you. I almost killed you,” he says, and Chris stops moving. He looks down at Peter. “You did.” 

Peter nods. He feels strangely calm. This can't be happening. He moves away, getting out of the bed. “Peter?” Chris asks, sounding worried. “I have to …” Peter tries to stagger to the door and has to stop, when the world sways around him. _You have to run. Because that’s what you do. You always run and think you can escape things._ He wants to tell the voice inside his head to shut up, but then a violent rush of nausea makes him sway and he falls with a groan. 

“Peter!” Chris is there in a heartbeat, wrapping his arms around Peter to hold him up. His naked chest is hot against Peter’s back. “What’s wrong?” 

Peter shakes his head, pressing his eyes closed. “I’m fine. Just … tired.” 

“You’re still recovering. You should get back into bed,” Chris says calmly, helping Peter to get up and on the bed again. Peter sighs relieved when he can bury his face in the pillow. He doesn't know what to do or say. This is all too much. He wants to enjoy Chris' care and at the same time, he wants to run away from it. He wants to embrace the fact Chris still has feelings for him and at the same time, wants to deny there's still a chance for something like that. Not after everything that happened. Not after everything Peter did. He is aware he did a lot of horrible things to a lot of people who didn't deserve any of it. He doesn't feel sorry for everything or everyone, but he will always hate a part of himself for certain things he did. For being so out of control.

“I could get you something from your apartment by the way,” Chris offers, sounding hesitant. “If you still have it?” 

"I still have it. I paid the rent in advance for an entire year.” Almost as if I sensed I wouldn’t stay there. I should have stayed there or left this cursed town, he thinks bitterly. But at the same time, he thinks if he left he would have never ended up with the knowledge that Chris loved him all these years and he would never feel the echo of the kiss still on the lips now. The proper passionate kiss. “A few clothes and books would be nice since you obviously want me to stay here,” he murmurs, squinting at Chris. “You don’t need the key, do you? Because I don’t know where it is.” 

Chris smirks. He looks almost like in the past. Smug and self-confident. “No. I don’t need a key. I know at least 20 ways to open a door without one.” 

Peter smiles weakly. “Thought so.” 

“I’ll hurry,” Chris says, leaving after a last long look. 

Peter stares after him, not knowing how to feel. Confusion mingles with wonder and even a hint of hope. He guesses it would be best to get some sleep. Maybe, he can process everything better, when he doesn’t feel so tired anymore …

* * *

Peter wakes up with a choked off scream, reaching for his face because it’s burning and it hurts, hurts, hurts - but when he touches his skin, it’s cool and smooth. He exhales shakily and flinches, when suddenly, there’s a hand on his arm. Chris … 

The hunter looks at him worried and tired. He’s back in his chair again. “You’re alright. It was just a nightmare.” 

Peter sighs. Just great. Chris saw him writhing and gasping and screaming. Pathetic … He must have said the last word out loud, because Chris suddenly shakes his head and says, “We all have nightmares, Peter. I have them too.” 

And to Peter’s surprise, Chris gets up, sits on the bed and folds his hands in his lap, sighing. “I’m dreaming about Vic. How her eyes turned golden and how she wrapped her fingers around that damn knife. I should have stopped her. She could have lived. Being a werewolf is not a fucking death sentence. But … She always knew what she wanted. I don’t know if she would have let me stop her, you know? And Allison … My girl. She couldn’t be stopped either. So determined to save her friends …” He wipes a hand over his face and smiles weakly. “This is all so fucked up, isn’t it?” 

Peter just hums. He’s still so tired. He inhales Chris’ scent. The hunter is so close, Peter can feel his warmth. He remembers their sudden kiss and swallows. God. He wants to do this again. But much more, he wants to press against Chris’ body, wants to feel warm and save for once. His wolf longs for it. Screams for it, now that he could actually have it. And Peter doesn’t know if he has much strength left to resist. But something inside him still recoils from wanting to reach out and touch and be touched. 

But then Chris looks at him and smiles, and that’s it. _Screw it._ Peter moves. He wraps his arms around Chris’ and pulls at him, until the hunter lays on his side. Chris grunts in surprise, but he doesn’t resist. He chuckles quietly when Peter noses at his neck and presses himself against Chris’ back, making a noise that is embarrassingly close to a content purr. 

“Is this a wolf thing?” Chris asks after a silent moment, sounding mildly amused.

“Obviously,” Peter murmurs. 

Chris hums. Then, he turns around and wraps his arms around Peter instead. Peter scoffs. “Do you take offence in being the little spoon?” 

Chris shakes his head, kissing Peter’s neck and the wolf shivers. “No. But I really like to do _this_.” And he wraps his arms around Peter, pulling him close. Peter sighs. Oh. This is good. Really good. 

“Is this okay?” Chris asks with a smile hidden in his voice. 

“Hmm. Yes.” 

Chris chuckles. He sounds way too smug. 

Peter makes a face. “Don’t you dare tell anyone about this,” he murmurs, closing his eyes. 

“Why not? Because everyone would know then that you have actual emotions? That you are craving normal things? Like everyone does?”

Peter wrinkles his nose. “I’m not like everyone.”

Chris snorts. “Of course. Of course you aren’t, Peter.” 

After that, he finally, thankfully, shuts up. 

Peter will never admit how heavenly this feels. Chris radiates warmth. He feels solid and save. For the first time in ages, Peter’s wolf calms down completely and he doesn’t feel restless but pleasantly sleepy. 

He falls asleep. The night passes without a nightmare.   
  


* * *

  
In the morning, there’s a sudden knock at the door. Loud. Firm. Persistent. 

Peter perks up, completely awake in a second. Chris moves beside him. He rolls on his back and groans, his shoulder lightly brushing against Peter’s. Peter listens and sniffs and growls low in his throat. He knows this scent. Threat fills every cell of his mind. Chris freezes, already reaching for his ever-present gun. “Who is it?” He murmurs. 

  
Peter scowls. “Your father.”


	6. Chris

Chris’ night has been surprisingly pleasant. He expected to be a bit tense with being so close to a werewolf he can’t consider as stable, but the night was calm. And warm. There were no nightmares either.

He only woke up in the middle of the night once, feeling a bit confused when he noticed the body beside him. But then he remembered. Remembered Peter’s sudden, almost violent attachment. The wolf had acted like he was touch-starved. Which he probably really was. Chris remembers his father’s lectures about pack mentality well enough. Touch is important for wolves. They are social creatures and pack bonds are strengthened through physical contact. Touch also helps with the healing. 

After their kiss and Peter’s nightmare later, Chris couldn’t find the strength to object. It felt good to be so close to Peter. The wolf practically radiated heat. He watched Peter sleeping for a moment. The wolf's face was relaxed and his breaths even. Chris fell back asleep soon. Only to wake up hours later, to Peter’s low growling. 

Chris freezes at the threatening noise. His hand twitches, already moving down to where the gun is strapped to his thigh. For a short moment, he has the vivid image of Peter digging his teeth into his throat in front of his eyes, but then, he hears a noise from downstairs. Impatient knocking. He looks at Peter, whose eyes are wide and gleaming in supernatural blue, his fangs out and gritted.

"Who is it?" He asks.

“Your father,” Peter says, his voice dripping with disgust and hate. 

Chris' stomach sinks.

Gerard. What the hell does his father want here? Now?!

Chris thinks fast and comes to the conclusion, that not answering the door isn't an option. He gets up with a sigh and runs a hair through his hair, hoping he doesn’t look too dishevelled. He opens his wardrobe to look for a pair of jeans and a fresh shirt. Peter watches him with narrowed eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I am going to talk to him. Ask him what he wants,” Chris says calmly.

“Are you kidding? I’m going to rip out the old man’s throat right now,” Peter growls, getting up as well, flexing his claws.  
  
Chris scoffs. “You think he’s just going to let you kill him? There’s a reason he got so old, don’t underestimate him. Especially not now.” He doesn’t add anything, but they both know what he means. _Not now, when you’re still recovering. When you’re unstable. When you’re prone to making a mistake.  
_

Peter grits his teeth. “So, you are just going to lick his boots again? Like always?”  
  
Chris ignores the wolf. He finishes buttoning his shirt and runs a hand through his hair again. He glares at Peter. “Stay,” he says, firmly.  
  
Peter scowls. For a moment, he looks like he’s going to say screw it and dart for Gerard. Because he’s too damn proud to hide. But then, to Chris’ immense relief, he lays back on the bed and the tension eases out his muscles the tiniest bit. The fangs stay tough. And the bloodlust in his eyes. Chris sighs and leaves the room, rubbing the back of his head.  
  
Gerard has an awful timing. Why does he have to appear now, when Chris has a werewolf in his house. Chris really hopes Gerard didn’t discover his mountain ash lines yet. That would raise some uncomfortable questions. But maybe, he thinks with an unpleasant pulling in his stomach, maybe it isn’t coincidence. Maybe, Gerard isn’t alone. Maybe, he has a group of hunters somewhere, waiting. Maybe he’s here to bring Chris to his senses and to kill Peter. Maybe.

Gerard keeps most things to himself. He never reveals how much he really knows. Never reveals his true goal until it’s time to reach it. That’s part of the reason why he has survived for so long.  
  
Chris settles his hand on his gun before opening the door.

Gerard is standing there, alone, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Christopher,” he says, his hard eyes scanning Chris’ face. As usual, they seem to see more than there is actually to see. And as usual, Chris involuntarily feels a bit smaller in his father’s presence. More vulnerable. It’s like he is the boy from the past. The boy who wanted to please his father so desperately. The boy who always felt a kind of frightened respect mixed with a hint of careful love towards his father, no matter how often he was insulted or beaten for doing something wrong.

Chris is used to feeling like that. It’s hard to fight it. He has managed to tone it down in the last few years, with everything that happened; with him and his family growing apart more and more. With Kate doing things no responsible or sane hunter would ever do and with Gerard’s fanaticism growing stronger every year, making him dangerous and unpredictable.

“What do you want?” Chris asks, his fingers tightening around the handle of the gun. Without a doubt, his father is armed as well. Probably better than Chris is right now.

Gerard smiles. It’s cheerless as usual and doesn’t reach his eyes. “Can’t a father just visit his son and drink a cup of coffee with him?” He asks, raising both hands.

“Not a father like you,” Chris says and Gerard’s smile falters the tiniest bit. His eyes narrow. He takes his hands down. “Fine. I want to talk business. Can I come in now or do you want to talk to me on the doorstep?”  
  
Chris hesitates. He’s not sure where this is leading to. He has no idea how long Peter is going to stay where he is. But if he doesn’t allow Gerard inside, he’s going to get suspicious. If he isn’t already anyway. So he nods tightly and makes room for Gerard. His father steps in wordlessly, taking off his jacket and black gloves.

Chris still wonders if Gerard has discovered the mountain ash. He silently prepares an explanation. Something about him getting threats and wanting to protect himself.

While Gerard sits down at the kitchen table, Chris prepares two mugs of coffee. He notices that his and Peter’s glasses and plates are still standing on the counter and subtly moves them aside. Gerard watches him like an eagle would watch its prey.

Chris puts a steaming mug in front of his father wordlessly and sits down at the table with his own. He leans back, rolling his shoulders back. His body is tense. He can feel it in the ache of his muscles.

Gerard clears his throat, tapping a finger against his mug. “I heard what happened at Eichen House. Several death guards. Over a dozen injured. Well. They had it coming. With all these things they had down there. I don’t get why anyone would even bother to lock these animals away and waste food on them, when you can just put a bullet into their brains instead,” Gerard says. He takes a careful sip of his coffee, watching Chris closely over the steaming mug. 

Chris grits his teeth. Is this coincidence? Or is Gerard bringing up Eichen for a reason? He hates this. Hates not to know. And the worst is, he knows Peter is listening upstairs. He knows the werewolf hears every word. And every single word is going to make him more angry.

“You said you wanted to talk business?” He says, as calm as possible, trying to lead the talk to somewhere else.

“Yes. I have … some plans for this town,” Gerard says slowly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “And I want you to play an important part in fulfilling them.”

“Is that so,” Chris says quietly, sipping his own coffee. It’s too hot. His tongue prickles.

Gerard hums. “I want the name Argent to mean something again, Christopher. We have been holding back for far too long. All the monsters that escaped Eichen House. They are out there and it’s our responsibility to act. I am going to recruit again.” 

Chris’ breath falters. He puts his mug down a bit too fast and hard, hot coffee spilling on his hand. He doesn’t even really notice the burn. “What?” He asks, blinking. 

Gerard smiles. “I’m recruiting. It’s time to show everyone, who this town belongs to. It belongs to the humans, Christopher. Not to the monsters. I’ll start with the ones that escaped Eichen. They are lost anyway. And then I’ll move to the others. Until this town is free. I’m doing everyone a favour. Remember your wife, Christopher. Your daughter. They would still be here if it wasn’t for these abominations.”

Chris exhales sharply. Horror and pain bloom in his chest and explode in his heart. “You don’t talk about them,” he grits out, his hand clenching into a fist. “You don’t talk about my Allison. Or Vic. They _knew_ what they were doing. And Ally died saving her friends. Her friends!” 

Gerard narrows his eyes. They fill with disappointment, and a part of Chris screams at that. Wants to bend and apologize and make his father proud again. Because he’s an Argent, he’s a hunter, he’s … No. He shoves the boy back. Not anymore. He’s going to stand his ground. Because he knows better now. He knows so much better. “I won’t help you,” he says coldly. 

Gerard scoffs. “You know … Sometimes I ask myself why I even bothered with you. You were always so soft and slow. I still remember how you couldn’t even cut a rabbit’s throat in the beginning. And every time I thought I made a man out of you, you proved me different. It’s such an irony … If you could be a little bit more like Kate how she was before she turned into one of them …”  
  
“What Kate did was sick,” Chris says, his voice hoarse with anger. “She did horrible things. And she didn’t even feel a hint of regret. She lost herself in the rage and hate. Just like you.”  
  
Gerard raises his chin, his eyes shooting daggers. He points at Chris, gritting his teeth. “You shut up now. The only mistake Kate did was being inefficient. She killed a few humans and let a few of the monsters escape instead. It’s quite a shame that one of those who survived was the werewolf you wanted to fuck.” 

Chris gasps. Everything inside him turns cold. Gerard knew. He knew. He held it back all these years … To reveal it now. It’s like a cruel chess move.  
  
Gerard gets up and stares down at Chris, his eyes burning. “You really think Kate didn’t tell me? You think she didn’t tell me how you were lusting after this … this thing? My own son. My first instinct was to beat some sense back into you. But I held back instead, because I knew that would only make you rebel against me more. So I gave you Victoria and she was quite a distraction, wasn’t she? Or did the wolf reject you? I bet he did. Because he knew I would kill him and every single one of his filthy pack mates if I’d ever see him with you,” Gerard spats, and Chris grows colder with every word. He can only sit there, frozen in place. “I honestly don’t know why I am punished with a son like you. All I wanted, all I tried was making you great. Great like me, like our ancestors. But instead of appreciating this, you want to be with wolves, with abominations. You are a shame for our family, and still, still I’m trying! God knows, I’m trying!” 

When Gerard finally stops, he’s slightly breathless. 

Chris opens his mouth to say something. But he doesn’t have to. 

Because suddenly, there’s a low growl right behind him. 

Chris momentarily closes his eyes. _Oh Peter. Of course you have to come down. Of course you have to play the protector._

Gerard has his gun out in a second. He is still so incredibly fast. And Chris remembers. He remembers his dream from only a few nights ago. When he dreamt about Gerard shooting Peter. He shivers. 

Peter only growls louder when he sees the gun. He crouches low in the door frame, ready to jump. He’s shifted almost completely, his eyes gleaming with hatred and bloodlust.

“Well. Not really a surprise,” Gerard murmurs. “Now I know what the mountain ash is for, don’t I. Come on,” he taunts, glaring at Peter. “Why don’t you try to be faster than me. I’m starting my cleanup with you. It’s fitting.” 

Chris swallows heavily. There they are. Argent and Hale on opposite sides, on the brink of killing each other. No … Not here. Not now. Not, when he has a say in this. 

He gets up and moves to stand between Peter and Gerard. Moves into the line of fire. He slowly raises his hands. “Let’s not be hasty. There’s no need to shed blood today,” he says. 

“Yes, there is. Why is this thing even walking around freely, last I recall you had a cage in your basement,” Gerard says, his hand holding the gun not moving. Even though it’s pointed at Chris now. Gerard’s hand is completely steady. “Oh, I forgot. You’re fucking him, aren’t you.” 

Peter’s next growl sounds almost a scream and Chris knows he’s close to snapping. He turns his head to look at the wolf, looks right into the blue eyes and says, “Peter, _don’t_.” His words are so quiet, so low, they are barely there. But Peter hears them. And Chris almost expects him to lunge at Gerard anyway. But he doesn’t. Peter makes a frustrated snarling noise, but he stays where he is, focused on Gerard’s gun. 

Chris exhales a sigh and turns back to Gerard, shaking his head. “This is going to lead us nowhere, don’t you see it? Your hate is going to destroy lifes. You can’t kill everyone of them. What about Scott and his friends? He’s never killed anyone, never lost control. You want to kill him too?” 

Gerard scoffs. “They all will snap eventually, Christopher. That’s what I was teaching you! But you never listened, did you? You’re too much like your mother. Soft and not ready to do what has to be done. Maybe you will be, when this thing behind you turns on you and kills you. Oh … Wait. Didn’t that already happen? Weren’t you in the hospital for days because he pinned you to the wall with an iron rod?” Gerard smirks. 

Chris grits his teeth. Peter behind him stops growling. Chris raises his chin. “He did. And yet … I trust him more than I will ever trust you.”

He hears Peter gasp. Gerard’s facade falters a little. His smirk vanishes and only rage remains in his eyes instead of humorless amusion. “He saved my life, you know? When I was about to be attacked by a rogue. Years after _you_ sent me to fight one, all alone when I was inexperienced. I could have died. I almost did. You were cruel and I could have never satisfied you,” Chris says bitterly. 

Gerard shakes his head. “Oh man up, Christopher. Now get out of my way. Or I’ll shoot you like you shot me.” 

Chris stays where he is. “You’re not going to kill him. You’re not going to kill Scott and his friends either. Not when I’m here.”  
  
Gerard’s face contorts in rage and disgust. “You’re standing on the wrong side, Christopher,” he says lowly. It sounds like a warning. Like a threat.  
  
“Depends on the point of view,” Chris tells him calmly. “Now, leave my house.” 

Gerard scowls. “You want to throw _me_ out? Your own father?”

“Yes. I want to. Leave. I really don’t know how much longer I can keep him from tearing you to shreds,” he says, nodding towards Peter, who growls loudly. 

Gerard glares at them both, but finally lowers his gun and turns around swiftly. “This is going to have consequences,” he tells Chris over his shoulder. “I promise you.” Then, he finally grabs his jacket and leaves, slamming the door shut. 

For a moment, it’s completely silent. Chris exhales shakily, wiping a hand over his face. He’s sweating … He turns to Peter, who shifted back into his human form, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. “You should have stepped aside,” he says, his voice filled with anger and disgust. 

“ _You_ should have stayed upstairs,” Chris tells him, narrowing his eyes. “I told you to stay where you are. Now he knows you’re here. It was stupid to come down.” 

Peter scoffs. “I heard everything he was saying! I could smell his hatred towards you through the floorboards. And still, you are protecting this guy? He hates you, he hates me and my kind, who knows how much damage he’s going to do now …”

Chris sighs. “He’s still my father, Peter. My family.” 

Peter snorts in disbelief. “Are you even listening, Christopher? He despises you. He regrets he taught you to be a hunter. I could smell it all on him! The disappointment, the regret, the anger …”

The words cut deep. “I won’t have more of my family’s blood on my hands,” Chris insists.

“It would have been on _my_ claws. I wouldn’t have felt sorry. I saw your memories, Christopher. He abused you. Beat you. You shouldn’t feel like you owe him anything. And he wants to kill every single werewolf, you heard him! He’s dangerous.” 

Chris shakes his head. “There have to be other ways. Other ways than killing. It won’t ever stop, if we continue like this!” _I'm tired of it ..._

Peter makes a face. “Now you sound like Scott McCall.”

Chris glares at him. “Maybe it isn’t that bad to sometimes sound a bit like Scott. You want to solve everything with violence? Still? Aren’t you tired of that? See where it brought you. You lost control over your wolf when you were an Alpha, you died, and later you ended up in Eichen. An absolute hellhole where they were treating you like a rabid dog. Don’t you think a lot of this could have been prevented with less violence and less hunger for power?”

Peter looks uncomfortable for a volatile moment, but he's fast in building his walls back up in no time. “Oh, but it’s not about that. It’s not about me or Scott or anyone else. It’s about you. You’re still scared of him,” he says matter of factly. “You’re still scared of your father.”

Chris freezes. His breath hitches. “I’m not scared,” he all but growls, clenching both hands into a fist. _I’m not a child anymore. No. I’m not that boy anymore ...  
_

Peter raises his chin up. The hint of a smirk appears on his face. “You are. You reek of it. And you’re lying. Wolf, Chris. You can’t hide it from _me_ .”

Chris sees red. It’s too much. He breathes in deeply and then yells, “It’s none of your fucking business! Just piss off!”

Peter frowns. But he shrugs, goes upstairs and disappears in Chris’ bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. 

Chris sighs and rubs his temples, trying to calm down again with taking some deep breaths.

_Fucking werewolves._

  
_And fucking Gerard._

* * *

The rest of the day Chris stays downstairs, away from Peter. He feels restless and cleans the kitchen for the first time in ages. He scrubs the floor almost aggressively, his teeth gritted the whole time.  
  
Later, he goes running, tiring himself out as best as he can. The fresh air helps to clean his mind. Helps to order his thoughts. Deep down, he knows Peter is right. But he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. He doesn’t want to admit that a part of him is still scared and wants to shy away from his father's hard glance. He thinks about Gerard’s last words. _There are going to be consequences_ … He can’t shake off the feeling that this is going to end bad. Because it always does, doesn’t it? They are cursed. This whole town is fucking cursed.  
  
It’s already dusk when Chris returns home and goes upstairs to take a shower. The hot water feels heavenly on his sweaty skin. He scrubs himself a bit too firmly with a washcloth and feels his arms burning. It's like he's trying to get his father and his words off his inside and outside. He needs to clean himself. 

When Chris exits the shower after almost half an hour, he reaches for a towel and dries his hair. He looks up into the mirror over the sink and startles when he sees Peter’s reflection in it. The wolf leans in the doorframe, grinning at him. He looks confident and smug. The former anger all gone. 

Chris groans, supporting himself on the sink for a moment. “You wolves don’t ever knock, do you? No sense of privacy.”

Peter shrugs. “I have never learned the meaning of privacy,” he says mildly, tilting his head. 

Chris snorts and tries to ignore the way Peter’s eyes roam over his naked still wet body. He tries to ignore how Peter licks his lower lip and how his nostrils flare when he takes Chris’ scent in. He tries to ignore how his cock shows interest and his blood rushes southward. He tries. But it doesn’t really work. And Chris is well aware that Peter can sense his arousal in the air. 

He swallows heavily and wraps the towel around his hips.

“Are you finally finished?” Peter asks, walking into the room.  
  
“Yes …”  
  
“Great.” And just like that, Peter starts to undress. Chris grits his teeth and turns away, reaching for another towel to dry the rest of his body. Peter takes his time to fold his clothes and lay them on the closed toilet lid carefully. He takes his time with switching the water on and testing it with one toe, waiting until it’s hot enough. And Chris really doesn’t want to, but he can’t help but getting a glimpse. He shouldn’t have, he thinks. Then again, it’s not the first time he sees Peter partly or completely naked. Still. This … feels different.  
  
His eyes flicker from Peter’s neck down his back to his arse. He swallows. His throat feels so very dry. His traitorous cock is already half-hard from only squinting at Peter’s body. He can’t help it. Peter is still thinner than he used to be - than he should be - but looking at him still lights a fire inside Chris. For years, he has been imagining touching this body. He has gone to bars and had one night stands, imagining it was Peter who was on his knees in front of him. Fuck. He really has to leave.  
  
Peter seems to be finally satisfied with the temperature, because he steps in and looks at Chris over his shoulder, smirking. “Like what you see?”

 _That bastard_ … Chris just glares. Peter chuckles. “You sure smell like you like it,” he remarks and tilts his head back, closing his eyes in bliss when the water runs down his chest. “You know, I wouldn’t mind if you’d join me. I have nothing against some company in the shower,” he says.  
  
“No thank you,” Chris says and reaches for his clothes. He leaves the bathroom faster than he wants to, his cheeks burning and his cock aching, Peter’s quiet chuckle echoing in his mind.

He goes right down to the couch, drops on it and jerks himself off almost angrily. Later, when he returns to the bedroom, Peter is already asleep on the bed, the blanket wrapped around his body like a cocoon.   
  
Chris decides to nap on the mattress again this time. He lays down, stares up at the ceiling and sighs.

What a shit day.  
  


* * *

  
The next day, Chris checks his messages for the first time in a while. He has been too busy with a delirious Peter to really care about them.  
  
While he scrolls through the more or less important messages, Peter is sitting on the window sill. He’s staring outside and Chris doesn’t really know if he does it because he fears hunters might watch the house, or if he’s just bored of being trapped inside. Chris doesn't really care. He is just relieved the wolf is so calm. But of course, that could change. He knows how sudden the mood changes can be, he has experienced them. And who knows what's going on inside Peter's mind anyway.

Chris sighs at a message from someone who wants a load of weapons. He doesn’t feel like selling any weapons right now. But the next one is making him perk up. It’s from Diana. The supernatural therapist he told Melissa about. Chris glances at Peter who is completely focused on the street, and then starts to read.

He’s relieved. He expected a strict no. And after what happened, after the threats Diana received, he wouldn’t have minded. But it’s not a no. It’s not a yes either, but it’s at least a maybe bothering on a confirmation.  
  
Apparently Diana isn’t that far away from Beacon Hills right now. She is busy but would consider to drive to the town maybe once a week. That has to suffice. Chris doesn’t know if he gets Peter to talk to her anyway. He sent Diana a long list of what happened to the wolf in the past and of the symptoms he could recognize. Diana’s message shows him she’s concerned about Peter’s state of mind as well as about Chris’ safety - of course she doesn’t know about his and Peter’s history. He will have to tell her eventually - but at least she doesn’t suggest locking Peter in a cage or something.

She asks Chris to meet him beforehand and he agrees, giving her a date and a location, hoping she’s going to approve.

Another message is from Scott. Something about actual wolves turning up dead in the forest. Chris frowns. There are more messages from Scott. They become more urgent. Apparently, someone killed a werewolf and left behind a bullet with the Argent sign on it. Now, Chris really is concerned. He thinks about Gerard and his stomach sinks. Peter seems to notice his boiling distress, because he turns his head and looks at Chris thoughtfully.  
  
Chris sighs and types a quick message, telling Scott to meet him where he found the bullet, to send him the location.

He gets up from the mattress and starts to dress.

Peter frowns. “Where are you going?”  
  
“Talking to Scott about some … strange incidents,” Chris says, slipping into a shirt.  
  
Peter wrinkles his nose. “He’s going to be able to smell me on you, you know?”

“I know,” Chris sighs. “I’m going to talk to him.”  
  
Peter narrows his eyes. “Don’t tell him I’m sorry, or something. Because I’m not.”  
  
Chris feels a hint of anger, but he pushes it back. He buttons his jacket. “Noted.”

Peter hums and turns back to the window.

“If something happens, you’re calling me,” Chris tells him. “You hear me?”

“Yes, _master_ ,” Peter says, his voice dripping with irony.

Chris sighs and leaves.  
  


* * *

  
As soon as Chris is approaching him in the forest, Scott sniffs the air and frowns. “So it’s true,” he says, leaning against a tree. 

He already knows, Chris thinks. He shouldn’t have asked Melissa to keep a secret from her own werewolf son. She must feel guilty. “How long did you know about it?” He asks.

Scott shrugs. “Uhm. Not that long. It was sort of an accident. I was talking about what happened in Eichen to my mother and noticed how her heartbeat changed and she smelled strange. I asked her about it and she told me you got Peter out and have him in your house.” He stops and hesitates, chewing on his lip.  
  
“What else did she say?” Chris asks.

“She said they were abusing Peter and the other supernaturals,” Scott says carefully. “Is that true?”

“It’s true. Unfortunately. Peter had a lot of scars and bruises that weren’t healing when I found him there. He also was malnourished and so drugged, he couldn’t walk. He didn’t leave his cell although he could have. The mountain ash barrier was gone and almost everyone in there had left. He was in a very bad state for a while. Your mother helped a lot,” Chris explains.  
  
Scott grimaces. He looks shocked. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know what to do back then. Deaton said they would help him there. And I thought … I thought he’s right.”  
  
Deaton. Somehow, Chris has the somber feeling that the man knew exactly how it looked like in the basement of Eichen House. “It’s alright, Scott. I get it. You don't need to worry about Peter. He is my responsibility now."

Scott looks at him intently for a moment. Apparently, something he sees in Chris' eyes satisfies him. He nods. “Okay.”  
  
“So, are you going to show me the husk of the bullet?”  
  
Scott nods. He takes it out and hands it to Chris. He looks at it from all sides and frowns. “A silver bullet. And it was used to kill a werewolf? Here?”  
  
“Yes. But … I can see and sense that there was a lot of fighting. The werewolf was attacking the hunter. The hunter crawled away,” Scott points at the ground, where the earth is rough. “It took quite a while apparently, until the werewolf was shot in the head. And … the body was left here.”  
  
Chris frowns. “That couldn’t have been a professional hunter,” he says quietly, a somber premonition making him feel colder.

Scott’s brows arch. “What are you saying?”

Chris connects Gerard’s visit to this and swallows. “There’s a new hunter. Someone who wasn’t taught and now started to hunt. And I fear there are going to be more."  
  
He tells Scott about Gerard and what he said. About his threats. Scott swallows heavily. “That’s not good,” he murmurs.  
  
“It really isn’t,” Chris says, sighing heavily. “There could be a war.”

“A war,” Scott echoes, looking shocked.  
  
“Yes. A war between humans and supernaturals. Do you have one of these dead wolves? Maybe it’s connected to this in some way.”  
  
Scott nods. “It’s at Deaton’s.”  
  
“Let’s go there,” Chris sighs. He follows Scott, his chest feeling tight. A quiet voice inside his mind tells him, that something bad is going to happen. Soon.

He has the feeling he’s going to have to pick a side for real. And when he picked a side, he’s going to have to stay on it. Fight for it.  
  


When he’s honest to himself, he knows he has already chosen a side. Now he has to act accordingly.


	7. Chris / Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here have a Tuesday Chapter. I couldn't stop writing. 
> 
> It's a mean and dark chapter, but it's important. It's also the last really angsty chapter, I promise :) 
> 
> Tw for Gerard being Gerard, torture and violence.

The premonition of war lays somber and heavy in the air. Beacon Hills is almost too silent. It feels like the quiet before the storm. 

Chris drives home from the hospital, where he inspected a faceless body, together with Melissa. He still feels shaken. There in the morgue, he felt as fearful and small as never before in his life. His wounds and scars were opened and something bled into them. Something made the hairs in his neck stand up and made him feel like he was looking into a black bottomless abyss. 

It all makes more sense now. Something is causing the people of Beacon Hills to be scared. And their fear is somehow directed towards the Supernatural. But that’s not the only thing going on right now. Chris knows Gerard is taking advantage of the current situation. Knows, he’s recruiting. Is building his army. 

He knows _something_ is going to happen. And it’s almost painful to watch Scott. To watch him being aware that there are groups forming. Groups that will collide without a doubt. To watch him still trying to prevent or soften the impact. Chris doesn’t like watching it. Scott is young. They are all young. (Ally was young …) They shouldn’t have to think about war. They shouldn’t have to fear for their lives, especially because they are everything but monsters. 

Chris knows he should do more. He should already have done more when Gerard told him about his plans for Beacon Hills. But something is paralyzing him. It’s old and new fear, mixed with the layers of pain he has been collecting over the last years. It’s the loss. The heartbreak. And the nagging persistent feeling that nothing really matters anyway. 

He wonders if the wolves can sense it. He wonders what they don’t tell him, because they have the feeling they shouldn’t border him with it. 

He wonders. 

Peter is quiet these days. Withdrawn. Maybe he feels what’s happening outside. Maybe he’s just too far up his own head. Maybe it’s the full moon. It’s close, Chris knows. He has marked it in his calendar. In bright red. 

There’s a certain tenseness in the way they communicate. They don’t say more than necessary. Chris feels like they have taken a step back after doing some forward. It only adds to the grey clouds in his mind. Because something inside him is still pulled towards Peter, while another part feels like it’s no use. There’s been too much blood. 

Sometimes, Chris wakes up on his matress in the middle of the night and sees Peter sitting on the window sill staring outside. Sometimes, he can’t sleep himself and stares up at the ceiling or at Peter, watches his chest move up and down gently, watches his face that isn’t even relaxed in his sleep. Sometimes, he startles awake to the sound of whimpers and choked “No”s, and he wants to go over there, wants to spoon Peter again, wants to soothe him, but he forces himself to stay where he is. He doesn’t feel welcome to do it, not right now. 

Every night passes. And in the morning, Peter walks into the bathroom without a word. 

Chris fights the combination of disappointment and anger down and goes into his basement, to hit the punching bag there for a while.  
  
A few days of silence pass. Chris is beyond surprised, when Peter approaches him one evening, his face completely serious as he says, “You might have to lock me up this full moon.”  
  
Chris looks up from the book he’s reading - it’s one of Peter’s and it’s _good_. He wants to know what happens next and that hasn’t happened in ages - and frowns. “Really?”  
  
Peter nods and leans against the wall, crossing his arms. “You do have a cage in your basement, right?”  
  
“Yes. You really think it’s going to be necessary?” 

Peter shrugs. “You might want to make sure it’s still intact and working. I think you don’t want to be ripped apart in your own bedroom. That would make an awful mess.” And then he grins. It’s one of his cocky grins that makes his eyes sparkle.  
  
Chris lays the book aside and returns the grin. “Right now? I’ll need a test subject.”  
  
Peter snorts. “We still have time, Argent. I’m not losing my mind right now.” 

“If you say so. But are you going to lose it later?” Chris asks, 

Peter looks uncomfortable for a moment. And like he wants to walk away, like he usually does when he feels cornered. But then he stays. He actually sits down on the far end of the couch. “I don’t know. This full moon is different. It smells of blood,” he says thoughtfully, stroking a finger over the fabric of the couch, his eyes distant.  
  
Chris involuntarily shivers. “Blood?”

Peter hums. “On a full moon, the wolf is … louder. More insistent. He wants to be let out. Wants to hunt and dig his teeth into prey. I’m a born werewolf, I learned to control the wolf long ago. And it has always worked quite well. Well, if you don’t count the one time, when … You know.” 

Chris nods. He knows. They don’t need to spell it out. Peter refers to the full moon that made him wake up in hospital, that sent him outside, more wolf than human. 

“Well, and now, it starts to feel like back then. It starts to feel like I won’t be able to pull the wolf back in time. Like he’s going to take control.” Peter looks up, staring at Chris intently. “You are going to lock me up, you hear me? You’re not going to be stupid and try to snap me out of it. You’re going to put me into that cage and lock it and stay the fuck out, okay?”  
  
Chris blinks. Peter’s determination is almost startling him. “Yes.”  
  
“Good.” Peter is silent for a moment, his eyes flickering to the book Chris was reading. His eyes light up. “You’re reading it.”

“Yeah. It’s good.”  
  
Peter snorts. “Of course, it’s good. It’s certainly better than anything you have in your poor little _library_ ,” he says, wrinkling his nose. 

Chris smiles. He wonders, his thoughts still circling around what Peter said about the full moon. When Peter is ready to admit that he’s not completely whole, when he opens up like this, it’s maybe the right time to bring up Diana. He clears his throat, hoping he can put this into right words. “You know … I wondered if you would talk to someone. After everything that has happened.”  
  
Peter frowns. “Someone?” He looks at Chris puzzled, and the next moment, understanding fills his eyes. He’s fast as usual. “Oh. You mean someone like a shrink? Seriously, Christopher?” He laughs, but it doesn’t sound as amused as he probably wants it to sound. “Why should I. Someone like me doesn’t go to a shrink.” 

Chris shakes his head. “I’m talking about a supernatural therapist. She has talked to Derek after the fire. She had to move away because she got some threatening letters. But I talked to her. She said she would come back. For some sessions. For … You and me.” Because yes, he’s going to talk to her too. Why the fuck not. Maybe, he can put at least some pieces of his mind together again.  
  
Peter stares at him disbelievingly. “You’re actually _serious_ .” He gets up with an angry noise and starts to pace the room like a caged tiger. “I’m not broken, Christopher. I’m not weak,” he spits.  
  
“I didn’t say you were. But you know as well as I know, that you have been through a lot of trauma and never processed it. I have been through enough trauma my own. I know that. I can say that. It doesn’t make you weak to admit it.” 

Peter snorts, his eyes shooting daggers. “And then _what_? I’m talking to her and everything’s going to be better? It’s all just going away?” 

Chris shakes his head. “No. It won’t. But you might feel … lighter. Like you carry less baggage around.” 

Peter scoffs. He clenches his hands into tight fists at his side, still pacing. Five steps to the left, five to the right. “No one would understand …,” he mumbles. “Everyone thinks I’m a cold-blooded killer anyway. A sociopath, a homicidal maniac, a fucked up …”

“I don’t think you are cold-blooded,” Chris says quietly, interrupting him. 

Peter stops pacing and stares at him, his face unreadable. But the next moment, he just snarls and turns away, frozen in place. 

“Just … think about it, okay?” Chris asks.

Peter hesitates. “Maybe,” he finally murmurs, before leaving the room, disappearing upstairs.  
  
Chris looks after him. He has a feeling that this could have gone worse. He reaches for the book and allows himself to sink into the fictional world just for a while.  
  


* * *

Two days after Chris suggested seeing a shrink, Peter is alone in the house and bored out of his mind.  
  
Christopher is away, trying to help the kids figuring out how to prevent the war from happening. Peter thinks they are going to fail. If people really want to taste blood, it’s almost impossible to stop them. He has seen it all often enough. There are people who Gerard Argent, who are filled with enough hate to feed a thousand men and women with it. And there are people like the civilians who are ready to receive the hate and act according to it. It works especially well because of the current circumstances. 

They know now that an Anuk-Ite is haunting Beacon Hills.  
  
Peter knows what Anuk-Ites do well enough. He has read all about them and gave information to Chris who passed them on to McCall’s pack. 

This time, Peter thinks, Scott might have to kill someone for once. Or … Maybe once it’s time to shed blood, once it gets serious, they might come to him, now that they know Chris keeps him in his house like a pet. Because he has blood on his hands and they don’t. Because why should they have to kill if they have someone who knows how to do it. Only, Peter doesn’t feel like shedding any blood. Not anymore. 

Right now, he fears the choice might be taken away from him. The full moon is even closer now and his wolf is restless. Pushes forward with a shocking persistence, like he hasn’t done it in years. Peter’s dreams are soaked in red. He awakes from them, gasping, with the impression he can still smell the blood and feel the flesh tearing under his claws.  
  
It’s not going to happen, he thinks. Because as soon as he feels the first hint of loss of control, he’s going to let Chris lock him into that damn cage with its wolfsbane filled bars. And he’s only going to hurt himself while sweating the full moon out. 

It’s about to get noon when Peter finally rolls around in bed for the last time, still not really wanting to get up, but his stomach growls and clenches. He has to get some food. He sniffs the air and feels a hint of disappointment when he knows Chris is still not back. _What the hell is wrong with you_ , he asks himself angrily. Now he also starts to behave like a pet dog. 

He trots downstairs into the kitchen, while thinking about Chris’ words about the shrink and trauma. Something inside him fights the idea violently, while something else thinks it might be worth a shot. He is not stupid or in denial. He _knows_ his mind is damaged. But when he thinks about talking about everything that has happened to a stranger, when he imagines pulling out everything he has tried to bury in a far corner of his mind and lay it open, he shudders and feels sick. He doesn’t know if he will ever be able to talk about it.  
  
Annoyed, Peter shoves the depressing thoughts away and opens the fridge. He frowns at the contents. There isn't much. Christopher can’t be serious. He takes out a can of Ravioli, looks at it from all sides and wrinkles his nose. This isn’t food. This is _muck._ He makes a mental note to write a proper grocery list for Christopher later, and puts the offending can back with a grimace.  
  
Maybe, he’ll just eat toast again. He sighs, closes the fridge and then it happens. 

Glass shatters.  
  
Peter startles and ducks, already trying to find out where the noise did come from. Living room? He doesn’t have time to figure it out, because there’s a dull thud and then a hissing noise. He sniffs the air and freezes. Wolfsbane gas grenade. _Hunters._

Peter curses and holds his breath, trying to think. He can’t leave the house with the mountain ash barrier still around it. He’s trapped. And he can’t hold his breath forever. He inhales a cloud of gas and coughs, already feeling his legs trembling underneath him, already feeling the way too familiar dull heaviness spreading in his mind. The gas is _strong_. Fuck. For a volatile angry moment he curses Christopher and himself for their combined carelessness. For their stupidity. 

He hurries back to the stairs, trying to get up to the bedroom because _of course_ he left his mobile there. He has to alert Chris. Peter makes it halfway up the stairs - there seem to be so many of them, where there always so many?! - before his legs give way underneath him and he collapses with a pained gasp and another cough.  
  
He tries to get back up and growls as he hears steps coming closer. The mobile is too far away, he won’t manage to warn Christopher, in case they come for him too. Now he only has one option left: to fight. And that won’t work well because he’s already drugged and still too weakened from his stay at that hellhole. When he realizes he won’t get out of this, he feels a hint of panic mixed with a kind of hysteric amusement. Is that it? Is that how he’s going to die? Are they going to put a wolfsbane bullet into his brain, fucking finally?   
  
A boot enters his field of vision and he snarls, trying to lunge at whoever is standing in front of him. He only manages a weak forward motion before he collapses again and someone laughs. Something solid hits his back and a wave of electric white pain runs through his whole body. His muscles tense up and his teeth grit together painfully, as he’s shaken by the jolt. When he finally stops trembling, he can smell burnt flesh and almost gags. 

“Don’t overdo it. I want him alive.” This voice again … It isn’t a big surprise. Not really. Not anymore. Gerard steps into his blurry vision, looking down at him with a victorious smirk. “Not so cocky now, are we? It’s a good thing so many brave people nowadays want to help with the cleaning up.” 

“Fuck you,” Peter croaks, coughing violently. The gas is making it hard for him to breathe. 

Gerard only chuckles. He crouches down to be on eye level with Peter, pulling his head up by his hair. Peter barely feels it, he’s too numb. His wolf is whining somewhere deep in his mind, subdued. “I’m going to show my son the animal that you really are,” Gerard hisses. “He’s going to remember who he is and you’ll help me with that.”  
  
Peter growls, his fangs digging into his own lips, and he wants nothing more than to jump at this man, to tear him apart, to taste his blood, but before he can even try to move, someone presses a needle into his neck and leaking more wolfsbane into his bloodstream. He passes out in a matter of seconds. 

* * *

Christopher walks home, his mind busy with worrisome thoughts. Monroe is almost as fanatic as Gerard. She wants the wolves dead. The Anuk-Ite helps the new and old hunters in a horrible way. People are scared. People readily accept the weapons thrown towards them. People want to see the monsters die. They want blood.   
  
Chris walks around the corner and looks at his house, and stops dead in his steps. Something’s … wrong. He automatically reaches for the gun at his hip. When he approaches the house slowly, all his senses on alert, he looks at the ground and freezes. The mountain ash barrier is smeared. It’s broken. The worry blooms hot and violent in his chest.  
  
 _Peter …_  
  
He reaches for the door handle. At the same time, he notices a vague shadow, a movement, beside him. Chris turns around fast. But not fast enough. Something hits the back of his head hard, and the world goes black. 

* * *

Chris wakes up in a strange room, one of his feet chained to the wall. There are no windows, it smells of moss and damp wood. He frowns and reaches up to touch the back of his head. He feels dried blood there. Sticky and hot. He automatically looks around for an escape and pulls at the chain. It looks and feels solid. The cuff is cutting into his ankle. 

“Since you like wolves so much, I thought I’ll treat you like one.” Gerard’s voice cuts through Chris’ thoughts and he grits his teeth, closing his eyes briefly. Of course … He looks up. Gerard is sitting on a chair in front of him, watching him thoughtfully. 

Chris narrows his eyes. “Where’s Peter?” And a part of him fears they might have killed Peter on the spot. But another part feels like Gerard wants to teach him one of his cruel lessons. And this part is right. 

“Dosed with wolfsbane nicely for now,” Gerard says, smirking.

Chris almost feels relieved that Peter is still alive, because that means they have a chance to get out of here. But at the same time, he worries immensely, what Gerard is planning. He finds out the next moment, when Gerard tells him everything, his voice dripping with satisfaction.  
  
“I tell you what is going to happen. You’re going to stay down here and wait. Your precious wolf is going to be feral when I’m done with him. No water, no food. Some good old pain. It won’t take long with him already being an Omega and with the full moon so close. When he snaps, I’m going to throw you into a cage with him. And I’m going to give you a gun with three bullets, like I did when you killed your first rogue. When he’s going for your throat and trying to rip your flesh from your bones you’re going to kill him. Because that’s what you are. That’s what your instinct is going to tell you to do. You are a hunter and he’s the monster you’re going to kill. And you’re finally going to stand on the right side again.” He raises his chin. "On my side. On the Argent's side." 

Chris’ stomach clenches and he can taste bile in his throat. “You’re sick. You can’t seriously think we’re going to play after your rules! You can’t think that Scott and the others won’t come for you.”  
  
“They’re going to be busy enough with Monroe and her overeager hunters,” Gerard shrugs. “They are going to strike soon enough.”  
  
Chris grits his teeth. “You really want to cause a bloodbath in this town?! Most of your so called hunters are only civilians, ordinary people - teenagers, for God’s sake! - who were brainwashed and whose fear is heightened by a supernatural being haunting Beacon Hills!”

Gerard’s smile doesn’t falter. The insane glee in his eyes never expires. “There are always going to be sacrifices in a war, Christopher. But in the end, it’s going to be worth it.”  
  
“You’re crazy!” Chris yells, wishing he could get rid of the chain. He would lunge for his father like a wolf if he could. 

“I’m the only sane one between the two of us right now. You’re going to thank me later,” Gerard sighs and gets up. “Now sit and wait. Be patient.” And with that his father leaves the basement, slamming the door shut and locking it.

Chris bangs a fist against the wall and screams, “Fuck!” 

* * *

Peter can feel his control slipping. 

He has no idea how many days have passed since he woke up, dangling from the ceiling, his hands tied together with ropes soaked in wolfsbane, his feet barely reaching the floor. But he knows that he didn’t get any food or water the whole time. His throat is so dry, it hurts to breathe. His empty stomach clenches around nothing. It isn’t the first time he’s being starved, but it’s the first time there’s not even a drop of water somewhere, that could soothe the ache in his throat.

The dehydration makes him feel lightheaded and dizzy. His head is pounding. His lips are so dry, they crack at the slightest touch of his teeth which he can’t change into human anymore, no matter how hard he tries. He doesn’t want to admit it to himself, but he’s about to get desperate. And scared. 

Someone enters the room. Peter notices way too late, his nose blinded by all the wolfsbane in the air. 

It’s Gerard Argent and the bastard has a bottle full of water in his hand, smirking up at Peter. He makes a big show of opening the bottle and taking a few sips. Peter’s eyes are glued to the man’s bobbing throat. Oh how much he would like to rip it out. He licks his cracked lips and digs his fangs into them to distract himself with pain. Gerard looks up at him knowingly, shaking the bottle. “Are you thirsty? I bet you are. I bet you would drink your own piss by now.” 

“I’m going to drink your blood,” Peter croaks, and knows exactly how empty the threat sounds. He’s completely exhausted and probably couldn’t kill Gerard even without the wolfsbane raging inside and outside his body. 

And Gerard knows. He only chuckles, closing the water bottle. “Still able to form coherent words, I see. Impressive. A human can typically last three to four days without water. I’m eager to see how long it takes a wolf since you’re passing the third day now, but I don’t want you to die yet. I need you to get some sense back into my son.” 

Three days. It’s been three days. Peter saves that information, not exactly sure what to make of it. He can’t concentrate on anything. Vaguely, he wonders if they’re doing the same to Chris. 

Gerard is still watching him, with a detached kind of curiosity a kid would give an insect they trapped in a glass. He moves to the side until Peter can’t see him anymore. It sounds like he’s searching something. When he enters Peter’s blurry field of vision again, he’s holding one of his beloved electrified batons, stroking over it almost caressingly. He holds it to Peter’s side and the world explodes into pain. 

When he can finally unlock his muscles again, Peter snaps at Gerard, trying to break free, trying to get to this actual monster to kill it.  
  
“Are you angry yet? Good. I want you to be,” Gerard says mildly. “I want you to be full of rage, wolf. Come on. Get angry for me.”  
  
And he laughs as Peter roars at him. 

* * *

Chris can barely sleep. He eats and drinks the little food and water he gets, to remain his strength, and he does a few push ups now and then, just to occupy himself. His thoughts are almost always with Peter. He feels angry and helpless. And stupid. They wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t let Gerard just go. 

On what might be the fourth day of his captivity - is it full moon yet? He thinks it is ... - the door opens and a few men come inside, armed with guns and batons. They remove the chain wordlessly, pull him to his feet and push him out the basement. He feels a strange kind of calm detachment. It’s better than panic and worry, he knows. He’s going to need a clear head to get them out of this. 

He’s led into a larger room and there are a lot of people. They all have weapons, although some are so young, they are certainly only teenagers. Chris feels a hint of rage at this, at the fact that Gerard pulls teenagers into his insane stupid campaign. He focuses on the cage in the middle of the room and his stomach sinks when he discovers Peter, crouching in a corner, clearly in full beta shift, his eyes gleaming supernatural blue in the dim light. He’s not moving. 

The people surrounding the cage look like they are eager to watch what Gerard has planned, and Chris feels bile burning in his throat. What the hell is happening here? What is making them act like they are attending some kind of Roman Gladiator spectacle, instead of a cruel and disgusting display of inhumanity?! 

A gun is pressed into his hand from somewhere and then he’s being pushed into the cage. It’s locked behind him almost immediately. Chris stumbles and hits his head, gritting his teeth and trying to choke back the noise of pain. He focuses on Peter who still isn’t moving. He takes a few deep breaths. _Be calm. Control your emotions._ That sounds like Vic for once. Not like Gerard.  
  
“Peter,” Chris says quietly, trying to get the wolf’s attention. 

Peter twitches and glimpses at Chris. He growls. Loudly.  
  
Chris swallows down the instinct to flee, to defend himself. He takes some more deep breaths and goes on his knees, to be on eye level with the wolf. He puts the gun on the ground beside him and raises both hands slowly. “It’s just me, Peter. It’s alright.”  
  
Gerard scoffs. Chris can hear it clearly. He ignores it. He focuses on Peter, looking right into his eyes. Peter snarls at him. He crouches low and bares his teeth and looks very much like a wolf preparing to attack its prey. His eyes are hazy and he's swaying. He looks like the rogue back then. Chris swallows.  
  
 _Fuck …_  
  
Chris swallows down the panic that tries to rise up. He needs to be calm. Otherwise Peter will smell his fear and see it as a weakness. “Peter,” he says again. They stare at each other for a long moment. Peter doesn’t growl anymore and Chris almost thinks, he’s got this. But the next second, Peter lunges at him, all snapping fangs and wild eyes. Chris falls backwards with a choked gasp and distantly hears some answering gasps from their audience. Claws tear his shirt open and graze his chest, leaving bright red marks that sting and burn.

Chris grunts and pushes against Peter’s chest with both hands, trying to get away from the snapping fangs that are too close to his throat. “Peter, it’s me. Stop!” He gasps breathlessly. Peter doesn’t stop. He’s not as strong as he would be in a better, healthier state, but he still is stronger than Chris could ever be. He’s losing, can already feel his muscles weakening under the assault. Fuck. This can’t happen.  
  
He won’t let it happen. 

Chris grits his teeth and does the only thing he can think of right now. He is a wolf.  
  
He uses all his remaining strength for one swift strong movement. He throws Peter onto his back and wraps a hand around the wolf’s neck, baring his own teeth and growls at Peter, who stares up at him wide-eyed, but still growls back and snarls. “Stop it!” Chris yells and momentarily tightens his grip around Peter’s neck. He halfway expects Peter to fight back, but then, to his immense belief, the werewolf slowly tilts his head back, baring more of his throat and whines. 

But Chris knows enough to know he’s not done. He brings his teeth closer to Peter’s neck and only hesitates for a second before sinking them into flesh. He bites until he tastes blood on his tongue and then withdraws, breathing heavily. He watches Peter laying on the ground, his chest heaving. He eventually moves, slowly and hesitantly, looking up at Chris. Chris dares to smile carefully, his heart pounding, the taste of bitter iron exploding on his tongue. 

When Peter attacks him again, he won’t be able to defend himself, Chris knows. He’s too exhausted. But Peter doesn’t attack. He shuffles closer, sniffs at Chris and then actually snuggles up at him, almost violently. He licks at Chris’ jaw once and rubs his check against him, scent-marking him. Chris flinches slightly, when Peter bites his neck with his fangs, but he only presses a little, until it stings and then pulls back, his trembling body leaning against Chris' heavily.   
  
There are astonished whispers in the room. Chris looks at Gerard whose eyes are wide and disbelieving, his hands clenched into tight fists. 

“What did you want to prove again?” Chris asks him coldly.

Gerard grits his teeth. He kicks the cage and it rattles. Peter startles at the noise and growls against Chris’ skin. Chris lays his hand on Peter’s back and strokes a circle there. “It’s alright,” he mumbles. He gets a barely audible “Chris?” in return and is relieved to hear an actual word. 

But he still has all reason to be worried about their situation, because Gerard is raging, the people in the room taking startled steps backward from him as he yells, “Don’t you dare, boy! Kill him. Kill him now or I’ll do it. I’ll draw it out and I’ll make you watch every single second!” 

“Just do it, Chris …” Peter’s voice is effectively non-existent, the words sounding slurred through the fangs, but they are there, Peter’s human side coming through briefly, and the defeat, the exhaustion laying in the words is what finally makes Chris snap. He reaches for the gun on the ground and points it through the bars at Gerard, ignoring the gasps around him and the noise of multiple weapons being unlocked. Gerard’s face falls. 

If that’s how he’s going to die, then be it, Chris thinks. _At least I am going to die on the right side of the cage. I'm not scared anymore ...  
_

His father glares at him. “You really want to do it? You rather be fast,” he snarls, his face contorted in his hate, barely looking human anymore. Chris narrows his eyes. But before he can shoot, the lights flicker and somewhere, someone screams. Everyone and everything freezes for a moment. Then, hell breaks loose. Everything explodes into chaos. There are growls and more startled screams, as werewolves jump into the crowd, snarling and fighting. 

Chris holds Peter and watches in numb surprise. 

He thinks he sees Scott knocking out two hunters, sees Stiles swinging his bat and Derek snarling at two scared teenagers who just run away, and something with a Kamina tail and the blue eyes of a werewolf - God, is that Jackson Whittemore?! - goes through the hunters like a flash, causing them to fall to the ground, paralyzed. Chris hears Gerard making an angry noise that sounds almost like a howl. He sees the man pointing his gun at a strange werewolf, only to fall as Jackson hits him right in the shoulder, disbelief branded on his face. 

Once their leader falls, a lot of the actual hunters turn to flee. Most of the people in the room have already dropped their weapons, appearing as the frightened civilians they actually are, pressed against the wall, wide-eyed.  
  
When the fight is over, Scott is staring at them, his red eyes changing back to human, looking shocked. 

Derek is already wrestling with the lock on the cage and Peter growls, his body tensing up. Chris looks at Stiles and shakes his head. “No! Don’t open it. Go and get me a bottle of water and something to calm him down.” 

Stiles hesitates, but he nods and leaves, only to come back in no time, handing Chris the bottle and a syringe filled with a clear liquid. “It’s going to let him sleep for quite a while,” Stiles explains. Chris only nods and takes it. He trusts the young emissary in training much more than he has ever trusted Deaton.

Peter goes for the water like he’s dying with thirst. He empties the bottle Chris holds to his lips so fast, he asks Stiles to get him another one. The boy looks at them with wide eyes and a slight frown before complying, his eyes glued to where Chris’ hand is on Peter’s back. 

When Peter finally stops gulping the water down, Chris doesn’t hesitate before he slides the needle into a vein in the wolf’s arm. 

“Chris …” Peter mumbles, blinking rapidly as if he’s trying to stay awake. 

“I’ve got you. It’s alright. You can let go,” Chris tells him, rubbing his back.  
  
Peter seems to take his words as permission, because as soon as they fade, he closes his eyes, exhales softly and lets the sedative work. 

* * *

Chris stares at Peter, who lays passed out in the back of his car, his head propped up on a pillow and his body covered with a fuzzy blanket someone provided. The sight makes him remember too much of the time he got the werewolf out of Eichen. Now Peter has been caught and abused all over again, and it’s basically Chris’ fault. The worst is, that Peter _knew_ he might be unstable at the full moon and Gerard took shameless advantage, making Peter hurt someone when all he wanted was to prevent exactly this from happening. It only adds to the pile of messed up things happening to them, Chris thinks grimly.

“How did you find us?” He asks Stiles, after gulping down a whole bottle of water himself. The clear liquid feels like balm for his sore throat.  
  
“Nolan suddenly seemed to have enough of playing werewolf racist. He spilled the beans,” Stiles explains. “He told us everything about Gerard’s torture chamber. We found Jackson and Ethan in it. And a few other supernaturals. They had quite the fun with the hunters, when we freed them. Well. Only with those who didn’t put their weapons down, of course. No one was killed at least.” 

Chris nods. He noticed that people started to look like they woke up from a bad dream. “The Anuk-Ite is gone?”  
  
“Stiles defeated it with a ton of mountain ash,” Scott says. “Most people started to wake up by now. They are not scared of us anymore. Monroe escaped and we’re pretty sure she’s still eager to wipe out supernaturals, just as Gerard. We’ll have to find her.” 

Scott wrinkles his nose. “Why were you two in a _cage_? What the hell was Gerard doing?”  
  
“Gerard tried to make Peter go feral and wanted me to kill him when he attacked,” Chris says curtly.  
  
Scott gasps. “Shit,” Stiles says, looking from Peter to Chris, his eyes wide. He looks actually sympathetic. “That’s some fucked up shit.”

“Why was he so keen on doing this to you and Peter,” Scott says, frowning.  
  
“He couldn’t handle me being on your side. He came to my house once and discovered that Peter was there. And … he could never handle Peter and me. Our shared history.” He hesitates, before adding, “The kind of our relationship.”  
  
“Oh,” Scott makes, his eyes lighting up. “Oh! Now it makes so much more sense …”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Stiles says dryly, rolling his eyes. “I figured it out ages ago.” 

“No, I mean … What Peter did in the cage, when we were watching, waiting for a good moment to attack.”  
  
Chris frowns. Something in Scott’s voice stirs worry inside him. “ _What_ did he do?” 

Scott looks at the red bite mark at Chris’ neck and clears his throat. “Peter claimed you. He thinks you’re his Alpha.” 

“What?” Chris blinks, the worry changing into surprise.  
  
“You made him submit to you,” Scott says, looking a bit embarrassed now. “You were talking _wolf_ to him in the cage and now his wolf thinks you’re his Alpha. ” 

“His Alpha _and_ his mate,” Stiles clarifies, cackling quietly. “There wouldn’t have been so much licking and scent-marking going on otherwise.” 

Chris shifts his weight nervously. He’s not sure he likes the direction this is taking. “But I’m not a wolf.”  
  
“Oh, but human Alphas and mates are totally a thing,” Stiles says with an excited grin, bouncing on his heels. “It’s not common. But it happens occasionally. I read all about it.”

Chris makes a face. “It wasn’t exactly my intention to be anyone’s Alpha.” Or mate …  
  
“Yeah, well. It might actually be a good thing,” Derek says carefully, stepping forward from where he’s been listening and watching silently, leaning against a tree. “Peter has been an Omega for a long time. He has no pack, no Alpha. Werewolves aren’t supposed to be alone, it’s dangerous and painful. If he sees you as his Alpha, he’s going to listen to you. He might be more stable.” Less homicidal and unpredictable isn’t what he doesn’t add, but it’s written on his face. 

Stiles turns to Derek, frowning. “Wait a minute. Who’s _your_ Alpha?” 

Derek throws Scott a quick glance. “I accepted Scott. But Peter can’t. He bit Scott and tried to integrate him into his pack back then. Technically, theoretically, Scott is supposed to be his beta. It’s … it wouldn’t feel right for him.” 

Chris knows what Derek isn’t saying. Peter would be too proud anyway to accept someone like Scott as Alpha. But apparently, he would accept Chris. He isn’t sure how to feel about this. He isn’t sure how to feel about anything. He decides to try to forget it for now. It’s been a long day. Right now, they have to go home and tend to their wounds. Their inside and outside wounds.

“I’m taking Peter home,” he announces. “I would suggest everyone tries to get some rest and we’ll meet later to discuss what to do about Gerard and Monroe.”  
  
Everyone nods, looking just as exhausted and tired as he feels himself. 

Stiles grins and salutes. “Yes, _Alpha_ Argent.”  
  
Chris groans. “Don’t call me that.” 

But everyone chuckles, even Derek’s lip twitch and Chris sighs in defeat. Apparently, he will have no other choice but to accept he’s now really half a wolf. He figures he can be Peter’s Alpha, if it helps him, if it grounds the wolf. He can at least try.  
  
Chris says his goodbyes and gets into his car. 


	8. Chris / Peter

Peter stirs when Chris parks the car in front of the house. He groans and blinks, his eyes still gleaming in supernatural blue. But they are heavy-lidded and Chris is not sure Peter knows where he is right now, or what is going on. Which could be dangerous in either way. But Chris has been past the point of caring about any dangers or risks for so long now, he’s not going to start to worry now.

He just hopes, his voice is going to get through to the werewolf. He exits the car on heavy legs, opening the back door and asking, “You’re with me, Peter?”  
  
When he hears Chris’ voice, Peter instantly perks up and stares at him. He blinks a few times, sniffs, and then almost falls out the car when he tries to scramble towards Chris, tangling his legs in the blanket.  
  
Chris reaches out to catch Peter and blinks in stunned surprise, until he remembers the whole Alpha thing. He’s not sure weather to feel slightly amused or worried. Peter is still so out of it right now, he acts more wolf than human and Chris has the vague feeling that he is going to be pissed about it in the morning, but he can’t find the strength to care. He’s so damn tired. He just hoists Peter up, until the wolf is on his feet and sighs, “Come on. Let’s go inside.”  
  
The few steps towards the door are agony. Now that the rush of adrenaline has truly left his body, Chris feels like his legs are going to give out underneath him any moment. Peter is leaning on him heavily, his steps unfocused and timid. He smells burnt and Chris’ energy is heightened up by a rush of rage directed towards Gerard. Unfortunately, he can imagine vividly, how his father made Peter snap. He tries to swallow his emotions down. Not now, not here. He has to focus on getting them inside and into a bed, fucking finally. 

After fumbling out his keys, Chris leads Peter to the stairs, grimacing when he realizes it still smells faintly of wolfsbane in the house. He’ll have to do something about that. 

“Almost there,” he promises. To Peter and himself. God. He’s so tired … He just wants to fall on the bed and sleep. And the bedroom is finally within reach now, but suddenly, Peter falters in his steps and he pulls into another direction. “No. Not safe,” he murmurs, his voice tired but also desperate. “Basement. Cage.” 

Chris frowns. He looks at Peter whose eyes are wide and whose claws dig into Chris arm, feeling like pinpricks. His human side is more prominent right now and it looks terrified. Chris realizes that it has to be bad, when Peter asks to be locked up right now, after everything that has happened in the last hours. And yet … He knows he can’t do this. 

“No,” he says firmly.   
  
Peter blinks at him incredulously. 

“I’m not going to lock you in another cage,” Chris says grimly. He has enough of cages. Of cages, wolfsbane and fucking hunters. “We’re going to sleep in my bed. It’s going to be alright.” 

Peter shudders. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmurs, the grip of the claws tightening briefly.  
  
“Then don’t,” Chris says firmly. “I trust you, alright?” _How couldn’t I, after everything ..._ “You have to trust me too.”

There’s doubt in Peter’s eyes now and a memory flashes in front of Chris’ eyes. Him crouching in front of Peter, hiding a syringe with a sedative behind his back, asking the wolf if he trusts Chris. And Peter answering No. So firmly and convinced. Now though, Peter looks at him for a long moment, until he sags slightly and breathes, “Alright.”

They move again. And after what seems like an eternity, they are finally in the bedroom. Finally close to rest.

“Get in the bed,” Chris tells Peter and the wolf hesitates, but his eyes glance longingly at the bed and finally he moves, curling into a ball on the mattress. 

Chris hesitates. For a moment, he thinks about getting the mountain ash barrier back up. But ... He has just told Peter he trusts him. Trapping him again would be like denying his own statement. So he just stumbles downstairs one more time, to fetch two bottles of water, moving through his own house, like a staggering ghost. 

Back in the bedroom, Chris puts the bottles on the night table and drops on the bed with a quiet relieved groan, kicking his boots off. He’s aware they both reek. He doesn’t have to be an actual wolf to smell it. To smell the blood and sweat and worse things. He doesn’t find the necessary energy to care. He just wants to sleep. 

When Chris closes his eyes, Peter makes a quiet noise. It’s a groan changing into a distressed whine. The wolf writhes on the bed and when Chris forces his tired eyes open again, he sees Peter pulling at his hair, the sight so hauntingly familiar. He reaches out on instinct, putting his hand on Peter’s neck and applying gentle yet firm pressure. “Stop,” he says.  
  
Peter freezes and exhales shakily. His hands relax and he removes them from his head, holding on to the blanket instead. 

Chris nods in exhausted satisfaction. He keeps his hand where it is and says, “Rest.” 

Peter sighs and closes his eyes. Chris feels the tension ease out his muscles and his own eyes drop. He isn’t able to keep them open any longer. Sleep reaches for him with fast fingers, pulling him under in no time.  
  
He sleeps like a rock. 

* * *

When Peter wakes up, everything is warm, soft and soaked in Chris’ scent. He frowns and wonders if this is a dream. He had such dreams before, only to startle awake, only to open his eyes to the painful reality.

To electricity burning him in white fire and to the laughs of a madman. 

This dream doesn’t end though. Chris is laying on his back, so close he’s brushing shoulders with Peter. One of his hands lays close to Peter’s neck. He’s still wearing the same dirty clothes as yesterday, his shirt shredded and soaked with red. 

Peter blinks. This is confusing. How did they get here? He was so certain he wouldn’t leave that cage. Not alive at least. He remembers seeing everything through a red haze. He remembers pain and hate drowning out every other emotion. He remembers the wolf taking charge, the urge to dig claws into flesh and to draw blood. To kill.  
  
But he also remembers Chris being there. Remembers Chris’ calm voice cutting through the haze. Clear like an anchor. 

He stares at Chris’ sleeping face and startles, when he feels a strange pull. _Alpha_ , his wolf says and settles down, almost purring in satisfaction. Peter doesn’t understand what is going on. 

Chris _can’t_ be his Alpha. He’s human. Even more than that, he is a hunter. An Argent. A member of the family that has only caused him pain and despair. He’s supposed to be the enemy. Chris is supposed to be the worst kind of human, the kind of human Peter is supposed to avoid at all costs. 

But the thing is … The Argents have caused Chris incredible pain as well. Peter has seen the memories. Has seen the abuse and has felt the desperation, the self-depreciating need to satisfy a cruel father who would always have found a reason to be disappointed. The thing is, he knows Chris has always felt like an outsider in his own family, just like Peter has felt in the pack for quite a while. He knows Chris is different from Gerard. Or Kate. 

He discovers the red mark at Chris’ neck, the skin irritated and just starting to heal. And even though he’s still tired and confused, he thinks he starts to understand what happened in the cage. He just doesn’t know, how he is supposed to - how he wants to - deal with this. 

His wolf insists that Chris is Alpha, is pack - and therefore needs to be treated as such. Needs to be protected and groomed and pleased. Peter wrinkles his nose. 

The next moment, Chris opens his eyes and blinks into the sunlight. He sighs and turns his head, squinting at Peter. “Feeling better?” He asks, his voice hoarse from sleep.  
  
Peter shrugs. “I guess.”  
  
“Good.” Chris sits up and grimaces, looking down at his front, at the dirty shirt he’s wearing. “We should take a shower. Right now.”   
  
Peter nods. The room reeks of blood and sweat, combined with the distasteful after echo of wolfsbane. “Do you want to go first?”  
  
Chris hesitates. He moves until he sits at the edge of the bed, with his back to Peter. “I don’t know. Do you still don’t mind company in the shower?” He asks, scratching the back of his head. 

Peter frowns. “You want to shower with me?” _Why?_

Chris gets up with a groan. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to touch you,” he says and Peter flinches like he has been burned. He watches with wide eyes as Chris walks to the door and stops there for a moment. “You’re coming or not?” He asks.  
  
Peter hesitates. His wolf is already pulling at him, is pulling him into Chris’ direction eagerly. Together with the part of Peter that has been teasing Chris for acting so abashed in the shower not so long ago. Why not, he thinks and gets up. Why not …  
  


* * *

The bathroom soon fills with steam as they stand in the shower, taking turns at the hot stream of water. Peter tilts his head back and enjoys it running down his face. He sees Chris watching through the hazy steam. His eyes open and direct. So Peter takes the opportunity to watch as well. He likes what he sees, probably more than he should. His eyes flicker from Chris’ face down to his chest, to … He frowns as he discovers the row of red lines on Chris skin. He can’t remember doing this … 

Peter reaches out and Chris doesn’t flinch back when he runs a finger over a line. “I hurt you.” The _again_ remains unspoken between them. 

Chris shrugs. He reaches for the shampoo and rubs it into his hair. “You weren’t yourself.”  
  
Peter shakes his head, crossing his arms. “In some way, I was. The wolf is me. A huge part of me at least.”  
  
Chris hums. He nudges Peter until he makes place and Chris can step under the stream, washing the foam out of his hair. “And does your wolf still wants to kill me?”  
  
“No. Quite the contrary,” Peter murmurs. The wolf wants to touch and be touched. Wants to bare his throat and submit. But Peter still hesitates, because where the wolf might be purely about instincts, the human is about rationality. And he knows they can’t have this, because it’s too late. _He_ can’t have this. He doesn’t deserve it. He shouldn’t even be here. Not like this. He should turn and run and never look back, because everything is burning to the ground behind him anyway … 

“Peter. Breathe,” Chris suddenly says, cupping his face in his calloused hands. Peter startles and gasps. He didn’t even notice he almost started hyperventilating. Now he really wants to turn around and flee. This is pathetic. He almost starts to move away, but then Chris reaches for him, laying a hand on his arm. “Stay.”  
  
Peter frowns. “Why?”  
  
Chris just looks at him for a moment, and Peter can see the moment the hunter’s guard comes down. It’s almost scary. “Because I don’t want you to leave. I like this.” His words conjure up the echo of other words, spoken so long ago. _I like you … I still want you …_  
  
Peter sighs. He stays. And when Chris asks, “I want to wash your hair. Can I?” He nods tightly, almost startling at the gentle touch. Chris rubs the shampoo in carefully yet firmly. It feels good. A part of him wants to sink into it. Wants to lean back against Chris and melt. Another part denies himself the privilege.  
  
It’s annoying. Peter wants to relax. He really wants to. But he can’t. Not completely. His muscles remain tense and Chris rubs a hand over his back, asking, “Why don’t you just let go?” 

Peter closes his eyes. Yes. Why? Why can’t he let go? Why can’t he just give in? “I can’t. I’m sorry,” he says, almost surprised the words even come over his lips.  
  
“Don’t be,” Chris says, still rubbing the shampoo in, his fingers moving in tight circles. “We have time now.” 

Time …  
  
Peter almost wishes that could be true. 

* * *

  
Things don't stop getting more confusing.

Chris makes it clear enough he wants a relationship. Like … A proper relationship. Which involves things normal people do. Which doesn’t only mean rushed, almost violent kisses while one of them is pressed against a wall. No. Chris wants something that involves sleepy kisses in the morning, cuddles on the couch and hand holding. He wants something that requires being open and vulnerable. 

Peter is not sure he’s able to give this to Chris. It’s been ages since he’s opened up to anyone. Every time he tries, he manages to block himself. His wolf is in the middle, longing for more than what he gets now. More touch, more comfort and more opportunities to take care of his Alpha. 

It’s a mess. 

Peter remembers how it was to want to be kissed by Chris in the past, when they were young and didn’t fall into the abyss yet. It felt like a wildfire back then. It was exciting and painful. It wasn’t that different from how it is now. He wants to be kissed again, but doesn’t think he should ask for it. 

Every time they get closer, he feels like he’s fighting a battle with himself. One side wants to run, the other wants to close the distance. He can tell it’s getting to Chris’ nerves too, although he’s nothing but patient. Calm. But he sometimes sees the hurt in Chris eyes, when he tries to kiss, to touch, and Peter turns away.  
  
He thinks about it for a whole night, sitting on the window sill while Chris is snoring softly on the bed, and comes to a conclusion. He doesn’t like it. But it’s worth a try. 

“Do you still want me to talk to your shrink friend?” He asks Chris in the morning.   
  
Chris looks up, surprised. “If you want to.” 

Peter hesitates. He doesn’t want to. But he thinks he has to. “Call her,” he says curtly, and leaves the room before Chris can answer. He needs a bath.

* * *

It’s easy to spot Diana in the crowd. He waves at her and she waves back, a smile spreading on her well-tanned face. She carries her head high while she approaches Chris in the park, and some people throw forcefully casual glances at her. They stare at Diana’s right eye for a moment, which is milky, unseeing, crossed by a thin silver scar, before quickly turning away, acting like they don’t care at all.  
  
“Christopher,” Diana says when she’s in front of him, her eye flickering over him fast, scanning him. “It’s been too long.”   
  
“Diana.” They hug and sit on the bench Chris picked. It’s in front of a little lake. The water is ruffled by the low breeze from time to time. A few leaves float on the surface like crumpled boats. It’s a peaceful picture.  
  
“You look tired,” Diana says in her usual directness. 

Chris nods. “The last few years have been rough. Full of loss. Full of … blood.”  
  
Diana knows of course. There are certain things that don’t go unnoticed in the circles people like them operate in. “I’m sorry, Chris. I truly am.” Her words are honest and he mumbles a thank you, his eyes fixed on the currently calm surface of the lake. 

“Do you still have a werewolf in your bedroom?” Diana eventually asks, her voice slightly teasing.  
  
Chris grins crookedly. “Yes. But things are … Things changed, since I contacted you. I’m Alpha now.”  
  
Diana arches a brow. “Are you? Congrats, I guess.” She looks ahead for a moment, watching the ducks on the lake, before she adds, “That requires a certain kind of connection, you know. And a certain kind of character. Not every human can become an Alpha.”  
  
“I know.” Well. At least he does now. Stiles has been info dumping on Chris’ mobile for the last few days.

Diana hums. “I must admit, I was surprised when you told me Peter Hale is still alive. Back then, when I was talking to Derek, it seemed like he didn’t stand a chance, with how severe his burns and the smoke poisoning were. Derek said, the remaining bond was thin and straining, just a moment away from snapping.” 

“He was holding on to the few pack bonds he still had. And after, he held on to rage mostly,” Chris says quietly. “He wasn’t the same when he woke up. He was turned inside out. His shift back then … You’ve never seen something like that before. It was grotesque. It was like his wolf wanted to be out completely, but couldn’t. Not entirely.” And it certainly looked like it was incredibly painful to turn from human into this form and back. 

Diana nods slowly. “I see. He wants to talk to me?”  
  
Chris makes an agreeing noise. “He said he would, yes. He would give it a try. But … He’s wary. And erratic even on his best days.”  
  
Diana doesn’t look the least impressed. Chris knows she’s used to a lot. If anyone can handle Peter, it’s her. “And you?” She asks, looking at him intently.  
  
Chris sighs. “Yeah. If you don’t mind … But I don’t want to talk about Peter. Not when you're going to ttalk to him. I only want to talk about … You know. About _them_.” 

Diana nods. “Alright. I’m ready when you are.”

Chris looks up at the sky and sighs.  
  
He starts to talk.  
  


* * *

They meet in Chris’ study, where it smells of leather and, thankfully, not of wolfsbane. Peter didn’t know what to expect, so he’s neither surprised nor underwhelmed by Diana’s appearance. Her voice, when she introduces herself is calm and clear, the squeeze of her hand firm and not the least careful.

One of her eyes is milky and droops a little. A scar crosses it. There are some more scars on her skin. Long silver lines. They’re clearly coming from werewolf claws. He wonders if it was a patient. 

She sits opposite him and looks at him straight forward, folding her hands in her lap. 

“Are you not going to make notes?” Peter asks, crossing his arms. “Do you not want to frantically write down what I reveal about the abysses of my dark soul?” 

“Do you want me to?” Diana asks back. 

Peter shrugs. He’s slightly taken aback.  
  
Diana smiles. “In the first session, I give my clients the option to ask me questions. Do you want to know anything about me?”  
  
Peter frowns. Of course, he thinks, of course this is just one of her many ways to get into my mind. But well. If she insists. “You know what I am?”  
  
She nods. “I do.”  
  
“Why people like me? Why not the ordinary human?” 

Diana hums and leans back in her chair. She points at her eye. “When I was younger and studying psychology, I was attacked by a rogue werewolf. He had an arrow in his shoulder, soaked in wolfsbane. It was driving him insane and he stumbled over me, when I was running through the forest. He attacked and it costed me my eye. But I managed to calm him down. He changed back and I saw the human behind. The human who had a mental illness that made it hard for him to maintain social relationships and caused him to be isolated. That was the moment I got curious and started to investigate about the supernatural. I figured it was incredibly hard to go through life with never really being able to show everything. To reveal everything. So I decided to specialise in the supernatural. Now, my clients are both humans and supernaturals. I’m treating humans who had sudden and traumatic contacts with the supernatural, as well as supernaturals who would not get the treatment they need with a normal therapist or in an ordinary mental institution.”  
  
Peter nods slowly. He feels respect mingled with a rest of wariness. “You’re not scared I could lose control?” 

“I know how to defend myself if I have to,” Diana says. “You can be yourself here.”

Peter relaxes slightly. This is going into a way better direction than he had anticipated. At least, he believes her when she says she isn’t scared. That’s more than could be said about most who know about the supernatural. Her heartbeat is steady and she doesn't look at him, like he is a monster. He clears his throat. “Alright … How does this work? Do I lay back on the couch and you ask me questions about my daddy issues and analyze why I am like this?” Peter asks, not able to keep the zynism out of his words. 

Diana’s calm smile doesn’t falter. But then, she might have had worse people in front of her, Peter guesses. “You talk and I listen. As long as it takes. You can turn around or close your eyes if you don’t want to look at me while talking. I won’t interrupt you unless it’s really necessary or you ask me a question. I am good at prompting and stirring up a thought process, too.” 

Peter raises his chin. “Prompt me then.” 

“Why are you here? Why did you want to talk to me?” Diana asks, now really taking a notepad and a pencil out. Peter eyes them warily. He shrugs. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I want to be with Christopher. Properly. He says he wants to have a relationship. I rejected him once in the past, I can’t do it again. I don’t want to. But right now, I have problems with letting go. With allowing things to ... to happen. I feel like I’m constantly on the edge of running away from him and his touch.” He stops, actually surprised he said so much.  
  
Diana makes a note and hums. “That might be easier to explain than you think. You piled up years of trauma, loss and guilt, and now it’s like a wall, standing between what you want to have and what you think you can’t have.”  
  
Peter blinks. “That … makes sense.” 

Diana chuckles. “You sound surprised.” 

“What do I do with the wall then?” Peter asks eagerly, leaning forward in his chair.  
  
“You start breaking it down. Brick by brick. But I’m going to be honest. Don’t expect any miracles. What you feel isn’t just going to go away. In fact, you might feel worse for a while. Because you’re recalling all the memories and the pain connected to them.” 

Peter nods. He didn’t think it would be easy. Nothing is ever easy and everything comes with a prize. “What now?” He asks, frowning. “I don’t know where I’m supposed to start. Which brick.”  
  
Diana tilts her head. “Why not start at what you feel is the beginning?”  
  
Peter closes his eyes briefly. Of course. _This_. Things always have to come back to it. To the fire. He hesitates. “I … have never talked about it. With no one.” 

“It’s a painful memory. Take your time,” Diana says.  
  
Peter nods. He takes a few breaths and thinks about where to begin. He begins with, “The worst is, I felt something was about to happen. I warned my sister. I told her to be careful, but she didn't want to listen. She was convinced that our family was peaceful and in control of their shift like no other pack was enough to guarantee no hunter would do anything. We fought a lot about this. I actually considered leaving Beacon Hills. But of course, I couldn't. Everyone plays a role in the pack and mine was to protect and teach. I couldn’t leave my nephew behind. So I stayed. Until Kate Argent said our house on fire.”  
  
He shudders, when he remembers. The memories stir where he had tried to hide them, in a far corner of his mind. The thick smell of smoke, the heat and the first sounds of screams … The first hint of dawning desperation, when there’s no way out. When the exits are blocked with mountain ash …  
  
He talks for quite a while, his voice getting hoarse and his breaths shallow. Diana listens. Calm and attentive.  
  


“Six years,” Peter says eventually, feeling numb. “Six years I spent in this room. They thought I wasn’t aware of what was happening. I wish they were right. I wish I was numb and empty. But I wasn’t. I felt everything. I felt it when I started to lose control. Oh I fought it in the beginning. I fought it like crazy, holding on to every coherent thought. I was always proud of being in control. I didn’t want to be like a rabid dog. But in the end, it was just too much. Especially after Kate’s visit …”  
  
He closes his eyes, when he feels the echo of her finger on his burned skin. When he thinks he hears her venomous voice, mocking him. 

“There was so much rage,” Peter says. “It swallowed me.”  
  
He continues talking. And for the first time in a very long time, he feels tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t feel ashamed. Just sad. Sad about all these lost years and all the pain that was caused.  
  
And vaguely, he feels … a little bit cleaner.

* * *

Chris sits on the couch heavily, tilting his head back and looking up at the ceiling, where a fly crawls lazily over cracked wallpaper. He feels drained. He has just been talking to Diana. At least, he feels a little bit emptier with every session. It helps. He hopes Peter feels the same …  
  
 _Peter._

He’s there, suddenly. In the room. Chris didn’t even hear him sneaking in. 

Peter is there, hovering above him. A sharp shadow in the dim room. Peter looks down at him, and then he leans forward to kiss Chris. It’s not violent, urging or desperate like the last few times they did this. It’s slow, almost languid. It’s deep and seems like it wants to confirm something. 

Chris groans into Peter’s mouth, his hand coming up to cup the wolf’s face. He’s hard. He’s been hard from the moment they started kissing. And he knows, there’s no way to hide his arousal. Knows Peter can smell it. Can hear it in the uptick of his heartbeat. 

One of Peter’s hand strokes over Chris’ thigh, fingers creeping closer and closer to the bulge hidden behind the denim. Chris can’t help the twitch of his hips. Peter chuckles into his mouth. Chris almost wants to growl. _Tease_ … 

Chris exhales a shaky moan, when Peter palms his cock, applying too much and too little pressure. He takes his time until he finally frees Chris’ cock, exposing it to the chill air in the room. He runs a finger over a vein and Chris tilts his head back against the couch, sighing. 

And maybe, he thinks vaguely, maybe they shouldn’t be doing this. 

There hasn’t been enough talking yet. Peter still sometimes just turns away and flees the room. Chris still isn’t sure where they stand. What they are or are going to be. If they ever will be anything at all. But … It’s just too much. Years of pining and sexual frustration take their toll. He’s been fantasizing about this often enough. About Peter on his knees, about his mouth wrapped around his cock and these eyes looking up at him when he comes. He’s tired of denying himself all over again. Maybe he needs to let go just as urgent as Peter does. 

And right when the thought rushes through him, Peter gets on his knees gracefully. Chris groans when he feels warm breath on his skin, when Peter nuzzles at him, inhaling his scent. He’s on the edge of begging Peter to go on with it, when he’s suddenly surrounded by heat and his breath falters in shock. Hot, wet, _perfect._ He moans and reaches for Peter, burying a hand in the wolf’s hair. 

He looks down and his breath hitches when Peter returns his gaze with heavy-lidded eyes, pupils blown so wide, there’s barely any blue left. Peter sucks hard and Chris groans. It’s so good, he has to lean back and close his eyes for a moment, before it’s over way too soon. 

The pleasure is hot and pooling low in his body when Peter takes him in almost completely, making humming noises that vibrate around Chris’ cock, making him shiver. He looks down and Peter’s eyes are too blue, gleaming in the dim light of the room. 

Chris pulls at Peter’s hair and comes almost painfully hard, with a choked off cry. Bliss rushes through him in waves, shaking his body. Peter swallows around him, the contradictions of his throat milking Chris effectively. 

Chris sinks back against the couch breathing heavily and closing his eyes, shuddering when Peter releases his cock. When he comes down from the high and opens his eyes, he sees Peter still watching him, licking his lips. And he’s not a teenager anymore, but the sight alone makes Chris’ spent cock twitch in interest. 

Peter backs up and straightens, looking hesitant for a moment. Like he doesn’t really know if he should stay or go. Chris has seen that expression on his face before. Before he can turn around and flee, Chris reaches out and grabs Peter’s wrist. “Wait.”

Peter freezes. But he’s pliant when Chris pulls him back, makes him sit beside him on the couch and kisses him, tasting himself on Peter’s lips. “Let me …” He opens Peter’s jeans and pulls out his cock. It’s rock hard and hot in his hand. He wraps his fingers around it and gives a few experimental strokes. Peter shudders and groans, leaning heavily against Chris, pressing his face into the crook of Chris’ neck.  
  
Chris knows it isn’t perfect. The angle is difficult and the touch is rough, but it still takes barely more than a few minutes, until Peter shudders, hitches his hips up and moans, the noise muffled against Chris’ heated skin. When he spills all over Chris hand, Peter bites his neck, at the exact same place he bit it the last time. Chris hisses. “Ouch.” 

Peter just chuckles and licks over the irritated skin a few times, before sighing contently and snuggling up against Chris. They’re sitting there, dishevelled and breathless and seated, and Chris is aware he might be the only one who has seen Peter like this. So open and vulnerable. So satisfied and boneless. The thought is intoxicating. 

Another, darker part of him wonders what his father would think about _this_ , and he can’t help but feeling at least a bit of spiteful satisfaction. 

He wraps his arms around Peter. And for once, he gets to keep him. 

* * *

  
The next few weeks get a certain rhythm, a routine. They see Diana for therapy sessions separately. The sessions are tough and neither of them feels like talking after them. Chris goes running or working out after, while Peter just disappears under a blanket or in the bathroom. They let each other have the space. In return, they get more intimate moments and Peter allows himself to stay, longer and longer. He doesn’t try to only give anymore, but takes as well. It makes Chris happy. 

Chris starts to make some plans. He gets rid of stuff and mends some things in the house and garden. He occupies himself and has less moments where he just wants to drop on the couch and sleep. 

Peter starts to do the grocery shopping and the cooking. The first time Chris eats something Peter did, he’s beyond amazed. “This should be in every cookbook,” he says in awe. Peter snorts, though he looks pleased, almost abashed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Christopher. It's just proper food.” But he's smiling. 

They have a good thing going and for once, it doesn’t seem like something is going to destroy it. 

Still … Beacon Hills with all its memories and ghosts is haunting them even on the best of days. Nightmares and flashbacks … Every place, almost every human and inhuman being is connected to something.  
  
And the better he and Peter get, the more Chris wants to leave … 

Diana encouraged him. She said a change of location might do them good. Might help them to let go. There comes a time, when Chris stops only thinking about it, and starts to make actual plans. The location is clear. There’s only one place he would go to. 

Two days later, he finds two plane tickets in the mailbox. He lays them on the table, where Peter is cutting onions, looking strangely adorable while wiping at his teary eyes. Chris watches with a grin, as Peter squints at the tickets, dropping his knife and frowning.  
  
Chris clears his throat. “I know I’m many years too late, but … Peter Hale, do you want to run away with me?” 

Peter’s breath hitches. And then, he laughs. He laughs and runs a finger over the ticket, over the letters that say Paris. He nods. “I want to.”


	9. Chris

Chris takes a deep breath. Paris is in his lungs.  
  
Pont Alexandre III, the biggest bridge in Paris, sparkles golden in the beginning darkness of the late evening. The lights are reflected in the water of the Seine. The river floats along like smooth dark silk.  
  
Chris lets himself be carried along by the crowd. He passes young lovers sitting side by side on the railing of the bridge, their feet dangling above the water. A man plays the guitar, singing fast french songs with a clear voice. Chris thinks he recognizes “Je veux” by Zaz. The buttery scent of baking crépes floats through the air, carried by a low breeze that is just chilly enough to still be pleasant. 

Chris’ stomach grumbles quietly. It’s been a while since he had lunch. But he walks past the booth and the long queue in front of it. He neither has the time to wait nor does he feel the desire for something sweet right now. And he can see Peter’s wrinkled nose in front of his eyes. Can imagine his noise of displeasure at the thought of eating something cheap on the street. Peter, with his indifference in regard of prices, somehow always finds the best food, the most exclusive restaurants and the most hidden but charming boulangeries with their pain au chocolat and almond coffee. So Chris trusts him completely when it comes to food. 

He has gained some weight since they are here. They both did. It doesn’t surprise Chris, with all the pastries he finds on the night table when he opens his eyes in the morning almost every day. Macarons, croissants, éclairs … But it’s not only pastries. Sometimes, there are pastel coloured soaps in the shapes of animals, or soft neatly folded shirts. 

Chris knows enough about werewolves to recognize the gestures as courting. It just adds to the other new things Peter is doing lately. Things like rubbing his cheek against Chris’, to scent mark him. Chris is aware every werewolf could smell Peter on him a mile off. Sometimes, he wishes he would have a wolf’s nose, just to see how it is like, to be able to smell different layers of a person, not only the surface. But he’s human and he will stay human. That Peter’s wolf considers him an Alpha doesn’t change that fact. 

He’s human but that doesn’t keep Peter from treating him like his mate. Their relationship is more intimate now. It’s more stable. They stopped snarling at each other, stopped pushing too hard. Peter doesn’t flinch away anymore when Chris touches him gently, instead he leans into it. Chris doesn’t reach for his weapon anymore, when arms wrap around his body at night or when Peter growls in his sleep, caught in a nightmare. Instead, he drowsily reaches for Peter’s hand and offers his presence as comfort. It's enough most of the times. Peter's wolf reaches out and settles down. 

They both still have the nightmares frequently. Nightmares. Flashbacks. Sudden waves of shivering anxiety, coming in the most inconvenient situations. 

Because … of course, it’s all still there. The trauma didn’t stay in Beacon Hills, it followed them. Chris wasn’t so delusional to hope it would stay behind. He clinged to the possibility that the change of location might make it easier to deal with it. Diana said so and in the end she was right. It’s easier to think of it as past now. It’s in the past and there’s a future in front of them. The past is dead weight, not changeable. The future is new space, ready to be filled. 

Sometimes, Chris wonders if Peter would agree on a marriage. That way he could get rid of the name he doesn’t want to speak out loud anymore. The spiteful part of his persona fantasizes about sending the papers to his father, with the name Christopher Hale big and unmistakable written on them, and laughs. 

However, he keeps that to himself for now. He’s glad about what they have here. He’s glad about the light he sees in Peter’s eyes when he watches Chris accepting the gifts and offering something else in return. He’s glad they are where they are now. 

They have rented a room in a reasonably expensive hotel. The view is nice. The Seine and the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Peter insisted on a king size bed. Chris has never slept in such a big bed. He admits it has its advantages. There’s never not enough space.

On their first day, they recovered from the flight. Peter hated it. Chris knows exactly why, even though Peter didn’t tell him and tried to act like everything was alright. But Chris is too good in reading the wolf by now. He knows it was because of the non existent escape route. Because of the fact that they were basically trapped in a small space miles above the ground. Peter was trapped before. 

Chris noticed the wolf’s distress pretty soon. He noticed the sweat trickling down the side of Peter’s face. Peter was looking out the window, his face averted. His body was tense. Instead of reaching for Peter’s hand, Chris put his hand on Peter’s neck without much pressure. He just let it rest there, a silent yet firm presence. He could feel Peter relaxing the tiniest bit, but he knew the tension only left when they were back on the ground. 

On the second day, they made love. 

Over the last few weeks, they have touched each other a few times. But not like this. Not with this kind of trembling excitement and raw want. Chris has never shown what he wanted so openly before. Peter has never given himself over so easily. When they moved like this, it almost felt like they did this before. They didn’t. Not in reality. Chris has imagined it. He doesn’t know, if Peter did too. However, he could have never imagined how it would feel like, to see the wolf spread out underneath him, how it would feel like to feel him shudder and hear him moan. He couldn’t have imagined how it would be like to sink into heat, to lose himself in the rocking movements, to feel the slide of claws over his back; leaving thin red lines. 

It left him wondering. Marvelling. These claws leaving pin prick pain on his back have blood on them just like his hands do. They are imperfect, broken into different parts over time, set together in different ways more than once. They are killers. Liars. They were tumbling on the edge of insanity often enough. They have attacked each other, have smelled and felt each others blood on their hands, and yet … And yet they are here now. And yet, it feels right. So right. 

There on the bed, making love to the man who once was the boy he fell in love with, he felt almost reborn. When Peter breathed his name, he swallowed it. He took it like he took the moan of pleasure, and he gave his own back in return.  
  
It was bliss and Chris slept like a rock afterwards.  
  
Time passes, they have sex a few times more, exploring each other and learning what the other one likes. They sleep a lot, because why not, and take ridiculously long showers. So far, Paris has filled the future space just nicely. 

In the beginning, Chris was still thinking about possible risks. A lot. A hunter could recognize him. Approach him. Or Peter could find some werewolves and start something stupid he thinks is actually great, which would cause them only trouble. But so far, nothing like this has happened and Chris starts to feel less wary and more relaxed than ever. After only a few weeks, Beacon Hills and its shadow ghosts already feel so far away. This was a good decision. Maybe one of the best he has ever made.  
  
Today has been good. Chris has been on his own most of the day. He doesn’t mind. He had a fantastic cup of coffee in a café close to the Louvre. He still intends to take Peter to the museum, because there are in fact some things that belong to his family. He doesn’t know where Peter has been. Probably shopping. 

They are a thing now but they are not joined at the hip. Peter likes his freedom and Chris sometimes likes the solace. He likes to take slow walks through the city and discover new things about the places he already knows. Other than Peter, he hates shopping for clothes. Has always hated it. He only likes to see what Peter comes out the shops with. And he doesn’t mind accepting the clothes Peter throws at him, as long as they are comfortable and he doesn’t feel like they cling to his body like a second skin. 

Chris throws a glance at his clock. He’s on time. He even arrives at his and Peter’s meeting point early, only to see the wolf standing close to another man. They are talking and laughing. The stranger leans into Peter’s personal space and something inside Chris flames up with surprising force. He frowns. Are his worries about to become true already?  
  
Peter perks up when he approaches, filtering his scent from the crowd. The other man tilts his head and follows Peter’s eyes towards Chris in a familiar manner. His nose twitches. Another werewolf, Chris knows instinctively. And something inside him thinks, has the feeling, Peter is doing this on purpose, because he’s like that sometimes. Sometimes, he likes to mess with everyone. Sometimes, he's a bit more like he was before the fire now. Chris shouldn’t even react to it. But the jealousy hits him with full force anyway. His whole being screams _Mine_ in a wild way that surprises himself.

“Christopher,” Peter says, his eyes sparkling. 

Chris doesn’t answer. He just presses against Peter, putting a hand on his back and sliding it upwards, until he reaches the wolf’s neck and stops there, applying pressure. He feels Peter shuddering slightly. Chris stares directly at the other werewolf and knows, if he could, he would flash his eyes red now. “And you are?” He asks. 

The stranger looks at Chris intently. “You really _are_ human,” he says. He sounds mildly surprised. Peter shoots him a look that says _I told you so_.  
  
“I am,” Chris says, putting on his best intimidating smirk. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’m this gentleman’s Alpha and you stepped way too far into his personal space with your paws, wolf.” 

Peter looks at him with a combination of surprise and happy glee in his eyes. There’s just a hint of arousal hidden underneath. Chris can feel it. “Relax, Christopher,” he says and chuckles. “Laurent is an old friend. He was an exchange student back then and my family maintained contact with his for quite a while. We had a perfectly normal talk between friends. He told me about the different packs living in this part of the city and actually offered me a place in his, should I need it.” 

“Is that so,” Chris says, that spark of jealousy and possessiveness flaming up again despite Peter’s words that sound honest. Apparently, he wasn’t trying to play any games. Chris almost feels bad for considering it. “And what did you say?”  
  
“He said you are his Alpha and you two are pack enough,” Laurent says before Peter can answer, studying Chris with open curiosity but also a hint of amusement in his honey brown eyes. “I remember you. Saw you at school a few times. Your aura has always been a very interesting one, Christopher Argent.” 

Chris hums. “Since you know I’m an Argent, you also know I could kill you in a hundred different ways.” 

Laurent smiles. “I know. But there really is no need for threats. Or wariness. You might think, we would disapprove of your status. But in fact, everyone is going to praise this connection, since it shows hunters and wolves don’t have to tear each other to shreds. Not always. It’s a good thing. Although your family, of course, has quite a reputation.” He frowns, a hint of sadness entering his eyes. “When we heard about the fire, we were mourning for a long time. The Hales were always like legends. Idols, really, with their codex and their abilities of controlling themselves. It was a sad day for the community when so many of your family died, mon frére.” 

Chris feels Peter tensing slightly and changes the pressure of his hand to something more comforting. 

“However, we also heard about your codex, Christopher. And we approve of it. If you need anything, my pack will always be ready to help,” Laurent says with a respectful nod.  
  
Chris returns the gesture, feeling a bit relieved the wolf isn’t calling him Alpha Argent. “Thank you. We’ll keep that in mind.”  
  
Laurent smiles. He steps forward and kisses Peter on both cheeks like it’s the French manner. He adds a brief rub against Peter’s right cheek, to scent-mark him, before saying “Au revoir, mon frére.”  
  
Chris and Peter watch the werewolf disappearing in the crowd. Eventually, Peter turns to face Chris, arching his brows. “What was that behavior about, Christopher? It almost felt like you wanted to show him who I belong to.” He winks. 

Chris grins. “Maybe I wanted to do that, yes.”  
  
Peter looks surprised for a moment, but then he returns the grin, pressing a bit against Chris’ front. “What do you want to do now, _Alpha_ ?”  
  
Chris feels the hot rush of possessiveness going through him like adrenaline. He forgets his empty stomach and the museum. There’s only one thing he wants to do now. And it’s primal. It’s perfect. “I want to take you back to our room and wreck you,” he whispers into Peter’s ear and he doesn’t miss the shiver he gets in return. 

“You sure you can hold your promises, old man?” Peter asks teasingly, but his voice sounds a bit hoarse.  
  
Chris only tightens his grip at Peter’s neck and that’s enough of an answer.  
  
They barely manage to wait until they arrive in their room, before they rip each other’s clothes off. Their hands move fast and wild. Chris is impatient and he drops the bottle of lube, breathing out an annoyed growl. Peter chuckles from where he’s laying on the bed on his back, his cheeks flushed and his hair dishevelled. It’s getting longer, curling at the ends. Chris likes it. “My, Christopher, maybe we should ask Stiles if being an human Alpha slowly changes you into a wolf after all.”  
  
“Don’t mention Stiles,” Chris groans, picking up the bottle and finally managing to open it after three attempts. 

“Why not? Bet he would love to hear about what we’re doing, and …”  
  
Chris shuts him off with a heated kiss, pushing a lubed finger into Peter without hesitation or warning. 

It’s rough today. How they move has a primal note. Chris feels on the edge way too soon, all his senses screaming. He stops his thrusts and Peter hisses, his claws digging into Chris’ hip. “Get on with it! Move!”   
  
Chris grins. “Say you’re mine,” he rasps out. “Say it or I won’t move.”  
  
Peter groans. “Really?!” He hitches his hips up, trying to move back against Chris’ cock and Chris almost snaps his hips in return because it just feels too good, but he forces himself to remain unmoving, breathing heavily. “Say it,” he repeats. 

Peter frowns. He glares. And oh, Chris knows exactly how much he hates this. How much he hates losing. But that’s why it’s so much fun to watch it. He doesn’t have to wait all that long. Peter is silent for a few moments, apart from slightly desperate frantic breaths, and when Chris acts like he’s going to pull it out, Peter grabs his arm and says, “I’m yours. Please, Chris.”  
  
Chris smirks. “Louder. I didn’t hear you the first time.”  
  
Peter snarls. But he still repeats it, his eyes wide. “I’m yours.”  
  
“Always?”  
  
“Always.”  
  
“Good,” Chris says. And he moves. His thrusts are erratic, out of rhythm. They shove Peter back on the bed, his head almost hitting the wall. Peter moans and tilts his head back, baring his throat. Chris is never going to get tired of this. He knows what it means for Peter to be spread out in front of him like this. What it means for him to bare his throat and be on his back, presenting every vulnerable part of him. And Chris is the only one who gets to see Peter like this. So open. So lost in pleasure he doesn’t even notice his fangs dropping and his claws getting longer where they scratch over Chris’ back. 

Chris wraps a hand around Peter’s cock and the wolf’s eyes flash blue, radiantly bright in the dim room. Peter moans and turns his head to the side, closing his eyes. Chris knows what he’s doing and he won’t have it. He won’t let Peter hide himself. He reaches out to cup the wolf’s face and makes him turn his head. “Let me see,” he says between hectic breaths, “Let me see all of you.”  
  
Peter opens his gleaming eyes and stares up at Chris. 

“Yes,” Chris breathes, feeling he’s close. So close. “You’re perfect.” And he bites Peter’s neck, breaking the skin only a little bit, tasting a hint of iron.  
  
Peter comes with a sob, spilling over Chris’ hand. He’s clenching around Chris and he curses, managing a few more thrusts before he buries himself deep and shudders through his own orgasm.  
  
“Fuck,” Chris says and slumps over Peter who is breathing heavily. He runs a finger over the bite and Peter shudders. The wolf’s healing is stronger now. The irritated skin is already closing, the redness fading into pink. Chris watches it while his breathing slowly evens out.  
  
“I wish I could mark you permanently,” he says after a while, surprised at the longing pulling at his chest.   
  
Peter looks up at him surprised. He hesitates. “You ... could. It’s possible. It’s been done before, think of the pack signs.” He clears his throat. “ A tattoo, burned into the skin. That’s permanent.” 

Chris startles a bit. He shakes his head. The mere thought of using fire on Peter is enough to make him feel sick. “I’m not going to burn you.” 

Peter is silent for a moment. Then he says, “Maybe I want you to.” 

Chris frowns. “Really?”  
  
“I trust you,” Peter says calmly.  
  
Something in Chris’ chest tightens and warms up. “We can think about it another time,” he suggests. 

Peter nods. “You’ll need to think about a sign anyway. Something personal. Something you really feel.” He yawns and stretches, wrinkling his nose. “We’re disgusting.”  
  
Chris hums. He pulls out carefully and rolls on his back. “Shower then bed?”

“Yes,” Peter agrees. He leaves and Chris looks after him, admiring the view of Peter’s backside disappearing in the bathroom. He lays back and stares up at the ceiling, thinking about Peter’s suggestion.

* * *

  
Of course, they can’t stay in the hotel room forever. So Chris opens his laptop one evening and starts to search for flats. Peter is curled up beside him, dozing.  
  
Chris figures it wouldn’t be a good idea to live in the city center. Too much noise. Too many smells. Peter usually has enough of the sensational overload after a few hours of walking through the city. He also doesn’t want to live too far away. He searches for something in the districts. There are some nice flats. He scrolls through them, skipping the houses between, until Peter suddenly is at his side, his eyes aware. He reaches out and taps his finger on the screen. “This one.”

A little house. Not a flat.   
  
Chris frowns when he glances at the price. “It’s a bit expensive, don’t you think?”  
  
Peter arches a brow. “I don’t know the word expensive. What does it mean?”  
  
Chris snorts. He looks at house again, clicking through the pictures. It’s nice. It has a big porch and ivy is growing along the grey brick walls. It is a decent distance from the city. Far enough to be a calm area, close enough to reach the center fast. It really is nice.  
  
Chris gets a bit distracted when the blanket slips off Peter’s body, revealing the smooth skin of his hip bone. 

“Focus,” Peter tells him. But his lips twitch.  
  
Chris smiles and looks back at the screen. “It’s nice.”  
  
“Yes. So, you really want to do this whole domestic thing?” Peter asks.  
  
Chris nods. “I want to. Do you?”  
  
Peter tilts his head. “I think I do. It would be great to have a own place to furnish and decorate. And I’d like to have my own bathroom again where no one constantly puts stinky cheap soap in.” He wrinkles his nose.  
  
Chris laughs. “Alright. Let’s do it.”  
  


* * *

They get the house.  
  
Peter is euphoric when he gets to furnish it all alone because Chris knows it makes him happy and he doesn’t know anything about interior anyway. 

They spend some long evenings putting together furniture and sometimes, things go wrong. Horribly wrong. Peter suddenly has a nail sticking in his hand and Chris has to pull it out while the skin is trying to grow over it. Chris manages to shatter one of his fingers with the hammer and they spend almost an entire night at the hospital, because they see Chris’ stoic face and consider he can wait. Well, they only consider he can wait until Peter starts yelling at them.  
  
But despite all minor inconveniences, they manage to build themselves a nice place, that finally smells like home for both of them. 

The nightmares get lesser. The flashbacks and panic attacks are shorter. Their fights end in either laughing or angry wall sex that satisfies both of their darker sides. 

And when they sit on their porch in comfortable silence, watching a sunset, Chris almost feels like he's in a cheesy romcom. Something, he thinks warily, something has to go wrong now, right? Because … can it really be like this? Can this be the future?  
  
Maybe.  
  


* * *

  
After a few months, Scott’s pack visits them in Paris.  
  
The teenagers whistle when they see the house and Derek smiles. 

Stiles is still shaking like a leaf from the flight. “It was the first time,” he says, “And I’m never going to do that again. I’m never going to go back into this thing. It was horrible. Nowhere to go, nothing to do - only thinking about what could happen. Jesus!” He drops on the couch in the living room and Peter puts a huge glass of water in front of him.  
  
Chris knows Peter can sympathize with Stiles about this topic.  
  
He shows the rest of the house to the group.  
  
“It’s really nice,” Scott says and Lydia nods, looking around thoughtfully. “Looks like someone knows how to furnish a house properly,” she says, glancing at Peter who smirks. 

“Yeah, nice, I mean, where do you get all these vases and stuff?” Stiles rambles, reaching out to touch a vase standing on a cabinet.

Peter scrunches up his nose. “Please. Don’t touch anything,” he says, sounding a bit pained.  
  
Stiles freezes and pulls his hand back slowly. 

Chris chuckles. “Come on. Let’s talk on the porch.”  
  


* * *

While Derek takes Peter aside for a talk and they sit on the far end of the porch, Chris, Scott, Lydia and Stiles sit down at the table together. As soon as Chris got them a carafe of water and he sees Scott’s expression, he knows the young Alpha has bad news. It’s the way Scott is biting his lip and avoiding to look directly at Chris.  
  
And it makes Chris feel tense. Because … He doesn’t want to lose what he and Peter have here. He got attached to it.  
  
“What is it?” He asks Scott as calm as possible.

Scott takes a deep breath. “Gerard is dead.”

The words make Chris falter in his movements. The plate with biscuits he got them hovers above the table for a moment, before he sets it down slowly. Oh. That wasn’t, what he’d expected. “How did he die?” He asks.   
  
Scott chews on his lip. “Kate … We found them together. Looks like Gerard shot her with a deadly wolfsbane bullet and she managed to attack him before she died. So, yeah. They’re both dead now.”  
  
Chris nods. He doesn’t know how to feel. The rest of his family is gone. It’s almost ironic. Gerard died at the hand of the daughter he used to praise so much in front of Chris. 

Scott doesn’t say he’s sorry. Chris wouldn’t want him to. Because he isn’t. He doesn’t feel sorry at all. He even kind of feels … relieved. Now, he doesn’t have to worry about Kate or his fanatic father ever again. He doesn’t have to think about killing them before they can harm Peter or him another time. He’s … free. It might not be decent to see it like this, but he can’t help it.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says and the teenagers look a bit relieved that he’s so calm. “So, Gerard isn’t a danger anymore. What about Monroe?”  
  
Scott’s eyes darken and Lydia sighs. 

Stiles bites into a macaron and says, “Monroe is still on the run and probably searching for sympathisers. We need to find her. So far, we only know she’s somewhere in New York. She’s been busy. People are talking about her. Humans and supernaturals.” He frowns. “She’s dangerous. Might become almost as dangerous as Gerard was.” 

Scott nods. He clears his throat and Chris already knows what he’s going to ask. Already knows his own answer to the question that’s about to come. “Would you and Peter join us when we …”  
  
“No.” Chris interrupts him, his voice firm but calm. He glances at Peter, who still sits close to Derek, talking to him. “No, Scott. We are done. I can offer you advice. If you have any questions, I’m going to answer them. But I’m not going to go back into battle. I’m tired.” 

Scott nods. He doesn’t look too surprised. None of them do. “Thank you.” He leans back and smiles. “I’m glad you and Peter live here now. It seems to do you good.”  
  
Chris nods. “It does.”  
  
It really does.  
  


* * *

The pack leaves to visit the Eiffel Tower and to find some good fast food in the city of course.  
  
Chris gets two glasses of wine and joins Peter at the table on the porch. The wolf’s eyes are distant and thoughtful. But he perks up, when Chris hands him a glass and takes it with a mumbled “Thank you.”  
  
“Are you alright?” Chris asks, sitting down and stretching his legs.  
  
Peter nods. “Yes. I’ve been thinking about what Derek said.”  
  
Chris only waits. If Peter wants to say more about this, he’s going to.  
  
“He said, he would like to talk more frequently. He said we are family, even after everything. And he said he is impressed, that I’m here now, living this life, instead of … well, doing other things. Devious things.” Peter’s lips twitch. But he also looks fond. “He said I seem to be … happy.”

Chris smiles. “And? Are you happy?” 

Peter looks at him, his eyes sparkling. “I think I am. Here.” 

Chris nods. “I am happy here too.” Only here.  
  
They drink their wine and in the distance, the sun settles behind the Eiffel Tower. The future is still a huge open space, waiting to be filled with more.  
  


  
  


_The end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> mon frére = my brother  
> au revoir = Goodbye  
> pain au chocolat = chocolate bread (delicious!)  
> boulangerie = bakery


	10. Author's Note And Playlist

Since the story wanted to be wrapped up a bit earlier than I initially planned, I thought I'd share my playlist here. And maybe add a moodboard later, since I really want to do one for the story.  
  
But first of all, thanks for reading, commenting and leaving kudos! I had so much fun writing the story. I discovered and watched Teen Wolf only two months ago and I love it. I'm a bit sad I'm late to the party, but hey, I see that the fandom is still going strong ^^  
  
This is the fastest multi-chapter story I ever wrote. I finished it in a month and a half, I'm pretty proud of that. The characters and the setting just inspired me so much, as did the wonderful fanfic "a breath underwater, i've never felt like drowning", by Faetality. (Linked as inspiration for this fic :))

So, thanks for reading again and I hope you enjoyed the story! <3

Edit: I just had another thought: If anyone could imagine, what Chris' pack sign would look like, I maybe would add a chapter where Peter gets the tattoo. It's something I wanted to write, but I just couldn't think of anything creative enough, so now it's mentioned, could still be a sequel :D

* * *

Playlist

[Within Temptation - Memories](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gsQIOgkZt68) (Inspiration for the title)

  
[Underneath - Adam Lambert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iva5OqfA1cc)

[Apologize - One Republic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8OiXinljqhw)

[So What - Three Days Grace](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0eA35x3zxgY)

[Nothing's fair in love and war - Three Days Grace](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jNgq1s7Z1w4)

[You Found Me - The Fray](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jFg_8u87zT0)

[Broken - Seether ft. Amy Lee](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hPC2Fp7IT7o)

[Way Down We Go - Kaleo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0-7IHOXkiV8)

[Meet Me On The Battlefield - SVRCINA](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZrddJPGp1I)

[World So Cold - 12 Stones](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCXKVwcQVek)

[Human - Rag'n'Bone Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L3wKzyIN1yk)

[Natural - Imagine Dragon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0I647GU3Jsc)

[Unsteady - X Ambassadors](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0lw3qylVfY)

Paris:

[Je veux - ZAZ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0TFNGRYMz1U)

**Author's Note:**

> This was once an One Shot called "Oil and Gunpowder", now it's a multichapter fic. I needed more. And yes, the title comes from the Within Temptation song "Memories".  
> I always love to hear what you think about my stories! <3
> 
> Say hi on [Tumblr](https://for-the-love-of-wolves.tumblr.com/)  
> :)


End file.
